


The World is Made Wrong

by ashes_of_roses (KendraLuehr)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 18th Century Romance, Banter, Dry Humping, Eventual Romance, F/M, First Time, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Love/Hate, Masturbation, Mistaken Identity, Practice Kissing, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Some Humor, Student/teacher dynamic, Tory/Rebel romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraLuehr/pseuds/ashes_of_roses
Summary: Upon infiltrating a notorious Tory family, Ben never expected to be confused for the eldest daughter's fiancé. Unfortunately, the middle daughter is crass, brazen, and has quite the keen eye. While trying to evade her snappish tongue and observations, he uses this unexpected plight to his advantage, all the while struggling to avoid capture – both of the enemy and his heart.Sexual content warning.
Relationships: Benjamin Tallmadge & Original Character(s), Benjamin Tallmadge/Original Female Character(s), Caleb Brewster & Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	1. Mistaken Identity

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written canon/OC in all my 17 years of fic-writing, but this idea would NOT leave me alone, so here we are! 
> 
> The Boyds are a fictitious family I've created for my own amusement/storytelling purposes. If they happen to share names with any actual historical figures, it was completely by accident, and not my intention. With that said, despite the historical references, this isn't meant to be accurate -- though I suppose that's obvious, given the insertion of this fictitious family! 
> 
> The title is from Mark Twain's _The Prince and the Pauper,_ since I liked the idea of borrowing from a classic lit story featuring mistaken identities. There are some 18th century slang terms in here, and the definitions can be found at the end of each chapter. Hope you all enjoy!

When Caleb entered Ben’s tent that evening, he gave a low whistle. “Christ Almighty, you look like a high-flyer…”

“That’s the idea.” Turning toward his friend, Ben adjusted his cravat and sighed. “Fortunately, I was able to find a willing donor. There’s no way I would’ve been able to afford this disguise on my own.”

Bedecked in a tan, silk brocade waistcoat with a rosette on each button, an embroidered blue wool coat over top, and a pair of cream breeches, Ben was quite striking despite the hint of gloom in his eyes.

“You’ve got your story straight?” Caleb pressed, concern flashing across his dark eyes.

“I’m a Tory sympathizer looking to lend my aid,” Ben recited, sounding bored despite the tension in his shoulders. “I am in town seeking new residence with the hopes of expanding my lucrative business.”

“And your business is…?”

“Shipbuilding – in Philadelphia.”

“Good man! Sounds like you’ve been practicing,” Caleb crowed, his eyes twinkling with relief.

“This mission is a serious one,” Ben reminded him. “If I can infiltrate the Boyd family, perhaps we can also get a hold of Governor Tryon.”

“Ah, yes, a true dream,” Caleb grumbled, resisting the urge to spit. “Hopefully it won’t take too long. I’ve heard Jedediah Boyd is a bit of a loggerhead.”

“He can’t be _that_ stupid,” Ben muttered. “Thus far, he’s managed to avoid capture in his aid to the enemy.”

“Hard not to, seeing how New York’s crawling with redcoats,” Caleb agreed. “Well…” He shrugged, brightening before socking Ben on the arm. “I imagine you’ll wrap this one up in a jiff. While you’re at it, perhaps you can have a bit of fun?”

Ben’s face twisted in confusion. _“Fun?”_

“You know…at a bawdy house?”

He snorted. “I have never even _remotely_ entertained the idea of entering a bawdy house, Caleb.”

“Aye, and a lot of good it’s done you, too! There’s been plenty of boxing the Jesuit in your spare time.”

“Plenty of freedom from the _clap,_ as well.”

Caleb huffed. “I do _not_ have the clap!”

Not wanting to further this conversation, Ben instead reached out and took the other man’s hand, shaking it fondly. “I’ll send word the minute I learn something,” he promised.

Slowly, Caleb’s face sobered. “I’ll keep close by,” he agreed. “And remember: stick to the story.”

Ben’s smile grew lopsided. “I’m not much for deviation, as you’ll recall.”

Unfortunately, his words would soon prove to be false.

* * *

In New York City, the Boyd family lived on a street with large, ostentatious houses. Despite many of these being used for billeting soldiers, the Boyds had been spared of this inconvenience due to their close ties with the British generals and Governor Tryon, himself.

Jedediah, a successful attorney, lived with his wife, Laura, and their three beautiful young daughters, Charlotte, Clara and Catherine. The eldest and youngest were both well-poised and charming, but the middle daughter – well…she’d nearly brought the Boyds to great shame, seeing how she had already succumbed to “premarital carnalities” that were best to be kept hidden. After paying off the young man who’d stolen Clara’s virtue, the problem had more or less disappeared… Though Clara’s outrageous behavior most certainly had _not._

Presently, as she sat on a bench in the foyer with her youngest sister, Catherine, Clara irately listened as she was regaled with a story of young love and heartbreak.

“What a cad,” she spat, her red curls bouncing. “Right after you throw yourself at his feet, he decides to sow his oats in _that_ cow’s pasture? Unbelievable!”

Catherine blushed. “I did _not_ throw myself at him. And besides, Mr. Havenshire is still a gentleman... I’d prefer not to speak ill of him just because I behaved like a fool.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Well then allow _me_ to speak ill of him, because I certainly have no qualms with dragging him through the mud. Truly, I am surprised he hasn’t bored his new mistress to death with his wealthy knowledge of literature and arithmetic. He’s a complete dullard!”

Catherine soured. “I like to learn.”

“Yes, but he didn’t allow you to learn the one thing you were _truly_ interested in, if you get my meaning.”

“Do you _ever_ tire of your own perversions?”

“Of course not! The day I tire of men and sex is the day I no longer have a pulse.”

Anxiously, Catherine tugged at the itchy lace of her fichu. “Did Mr. Shaw rebuff you? I-I mean, you’ve told me he was your first lover, but did he come to you, or did you come to him?”

Clara’s green eyes grew almost feline, as they often did whenever she spoke of her conquests. “Oh, he most certainly came to _me._ It’s all about setting an irresistible trap, and then seeing it through to the end. All men are idiots, so if you flash a bit of skin or wink or toss your hair, they’ll be eating out of your palm…among other places.”

“Clara, _please.”_

“What? You asked!” Gently, she brushed a finger along a loose strand from Catherine’s strawberry blonde bun, then promptly nudged her arm. “Why don’t you send a letter to Mr. Hepplewhite instead?”

Catherine paled. “I really don’t think that would be wise…”

“Why ever not?” Clara fired back. “The man is smitten, _and_ he’s not nearly so boring. I suppose _all_ men are rather dull, when you get down to it, but he at least has excellent hands.”

Catherine’s brow creased, confusion flashing across her wide grey eyes. “What on earth do his _hands_ have to do with anything?”

“Why, everything, of course! If a man has nice hands – long fingers, in particular – he should be an excellent lover, indeed,” Clara said, winking. “Mr. Shaw had nice hands. He knew exactly what to stroke and rub.”

“Good Lord… Clara, I have _told_ you time and time again: please do _not_ speak of such filth!”

She huffed, unimpressed. “How is it _filth?_ God has blessed us with these bodies! Not to mention, procreation is wholly natural. If it were not, why would we ever wish to lie with men in the first place?”

Catherine sighed. “But what about Charlotte? _She_ has found a man of fine breeding, and seems quite content, judging by her letters.”

“Ah, yes…the ever-elusive Mr. Philip Ashby,” Clara agreed, rolling her eyes. “Were she actually to return from Philadelphia and _show us his face,_ I might be more inclined to believe in his existence. Why, it’s complete fudge that Father seems indifferent to their courting – he hasn't even met him!”

“Charlotte has excellent judgment,” Catherine said, only to immediately realize her mistake.

Clara pursed her mouth, though her green eyes were flashing. “Yes, yes, perfect little Lottie would absolutely _never_ let any man enter her carvel’s ring.”

Scandalized, Catherine swatted her arm. “Don’t speak like that!” she warned, blushing. “I cannot believe you even _know_ such words!”

“Why? _I_ have a carvel’s ring – and so do you.”

“Stop it, _stop it!”_

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Jolting to attention, both women turned toward the door in surprise.

“Was Father expecting someone?” Clara asked. When Catherine shook her head, the redhead nodded to the tall, thin servant standing at the far end of the foyer – William, his name was – and he nodded to them before going over and opening the door.

Eager, both Boyd daughters tried to see around William’s shoulders, but couldn’t quite get a good view. They could hear a pleasant, masculine voice, and Catherine gasped in delight.

“Oh, it must be Mr. Ashby!” she crowed. “See? I _knew_ Charlotte wasn’t lying!”

“Mr. Ashby?” Clara echoed, her interest piqued. “How ever did you come to _that_ conclusion? Is any old fool Mr. Ashby now?”

“I heard that man mention Philadelphia!” Catherine said, annoyed. “Though I’m loath to break my vow, Lottie told me she was scheduled to come home next week with Mr. Ashby – it’s to be a surprise!” Furrowing her brow, she added, "Though from the looks of things, Lottie has not yet arrived."

“Well, perhaps she sent down Mr. Ashby first to earn Father's approval,” Clara said, choosing to ignore the sting over having been excluded. As the black sheep of the family, she’d grown rather accustomed to it. Allowing the snub to roll off her shoulders, she rose from her perch and folded her hands over her ornate stomacher, adapting an air of superiority as she called, “Show him in, William.”

The servant bowed, muttered a curt, “Very good, Miss Clara,” and stepped aside to admit their new guest.

All at once, Clara’s eyes lit up, and her rosy lips twitched into a sly, lopsided smile. If she didn’t love her sister, she supposed she might actually be a bit _jealous._ This Philip Ashby was not only young, but very handsome. His eyes were a warm, enchanting cobalt blue, his features both sharp and soft, and his ash-blonde hair was pulled back into a braid at the nape of his neck.

With a simper, Clara stepped forward and extended her hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Ashby.”

The man’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he appeared genuinely confused. “I-I am-”

“Mr. Philip Ashby,” Clara said again, nodding. “Yes, yes, I know. Despite her best efforts, Charlotte has failed to keep you hidden from us. We know _all_ about your intentions to marry.”

If it were possible, the man seemed to pale even _further._ “I…am he, yes,” he finally allowed, taking her hand. “I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss…Clara, was it?”

“Ah! A man who is not only handsome, but capable of _listening?_ Why, I’m smitten already!” Clara teased. Nodding to him, she withdrew and gestured to her left. “This is my sister, Catherine. Mother is presently napping, but I can wake her, should you desire it? Father is in court, so I imagine he will be detained for quite some time.”

“No. No, no, that won’t be necessary.”

“Splendid! Well, if that’s all there is to it, William will show you to your room,” Clara said, beaming. “The supper gong will go off at six, so do make sure you aren’t late. Father _detests_ a lack of punctuality.”

Mr. Ashby bowed, and Clara and Catherine both curtsied in response.

While William led the newcomer off to the guest bedroom, Clara leaned over to her sister and whispered, “He has the backside of a Greek god.”

“Clara Boyd!” Catherine hissed, mortified. “Have you no shame?”

“Why no, none that I’m aware of,” she said, beaming. “Shall we read for a bit? I’ve grown rather bored.” Linking her arm through her sister’s, Clara grinned further and spirited Catherine off toward the library. Things suddenly seemed far, _far_ more interesting in New York City.

* * *

Ben was in a state of absolute panic. Pacing back and forth in his assigned guest bedroom, he pressed a fist over his mouth and exhaled through his nose, his head ducking downward as he moved from one side of the floor to the other.

This wasn’t happening. This was _not_ happening. As promising as the lie had seemed at first, Ben was quick to realize that he was ill-prepared. Not only did he know absolutely _nothing_ about this “Philip Ashby,” but he also didn’t have a wardrobe beyond the clothes on his back. He couldn’t very well pose as a rich, successful Tory – Ashby or otherwise – with only _one outfit_ to spare. Why on earth had he never taken into account that he might be invited to stay?

“Bloody hell,” he grumbled. The daughters had seemed delighted enough by his arrival, but swaying two young, impressionable women was a far cry from persuading a prominent, tough-as-nails attorney. Perhaps if he got one of the daughters to take pity on him, the Boyds could be convinced to overlook his lack of clothing…

Just as he was concocting his story in his head, a knock came at the door, and Clara Boyd popped her head in.

“Pardon me, Mr. Ashby,” she chirped, “but have you gotten yourself settled in?”

Stunned, Ben gaped back at her in shock. Checking on the welfare of a guest, let alone one of the _male persuasion_ was most certainly _not_ something a female member of the elite would do. It was inappropriate – _scandalous,_ in fact, and Ben felt a faint flush overtake him up to the tips of his ears. What would her father think, were he to become aware?

Suddenly able to picture a noose around his neck (or worse), Ben self-consciously touched his throat and swallowed. “Miss Boyd,” he greeted. “Though I appreciate the concern, this is _hardly_ appropriate.”

To his surprise, Clara snorted. It was a coarse, unladylike sound and she shrugged, stepping farther into the room.

“I thought I would lend my assistance,” she said. “I noticed you weren’t carrying any baggage…not entirely _wise,_ if you want my opinion.”

“I don’t,” Ben snapped, only to immediately regret his tone.

Clara, however, seemed enchanted by his brusqueness. “Well! At long last – a man who isn’t trying so desperately to pucker-up at my backside.” Simpering, she folded her hands. “I imagine in your haste to acquaint yourself with your lady-love’s family, you must have forgotten everything: your clothes, your servants, your…” She trailed off then, appraising him uncomfortably close. _“…fiancée,_ now that I think about it. Where is our darling Charlotte?”

“Philadelphia,” Ben said, praying for this to be true.

Clara arched a brow. “You decided to come to town _separately?”_

“Yes. I wanted to do the honorable thing and ask for your sister’s hand, face-to-face, man-to-man with your father.” Palms sweating, Ben’s cheek twitched and he composed himself with a tight smile. “I adore Charlotte, Miss Boyd. I intend to do right by her.”

“And so you shall,” Clara said, suddenly sounding bored. “Father worships the very ground Lottie walks on, so I trust he’ll roll out the carpet for your arrival.” Again, she appraised him. “Part of this mystery still remains unsolved. Why ever did you travel without any accompaniment?”

“I was nervous,” Ben fumbled, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I do my best thinking whenever I am by myself, so I…I panicked and departed on my own.”

“And your carriage is…?”

“Stolen. I was robbed by highwaymen. They took everything: my clothes, my carriage, my very _dignity.”_

Finally, Clara’s unruffled demeanor developed a slight chink. “Highwaymen? Good gracious!” Concerned, she inspected him with a different sort of invasiveness. “Are you hurt? Should we send for the constable?”

“No, no, I trust they’re long gone by now,” Ben said. “I came the rest of the way by foot.”

“By _foot?_ Lord above, you truly _are_ mad!”

 _I truly am,_ he bitterly thought, shaking his head. “I trust that was all you needed, Miss Boyd?”

Pursing her mouth, she took a slight step back and nodded. “I’ll have William lend you some raiment. You and Father aren’t so different in stature, though you might be a bit taller.”

“I would be much obliged, thank you.”

“Remember, Mr. Ashby: the supper gong is struck at six.” Slowly, Clara’s good humor returned and she smirked. “Might I make one small suggestion?”

A prick of unease filled Ben’s chest, but he nodded.

“When you _do_ finally speak with Father, please try and appear as though you don’t have a stick lodged up your bottom. It’s rather uncomely.” With her face breaking into a sly grin, she winked and offered him a curtsy. “That is all, Mr. Ashby. I look forward to seeing you at suppertime.”

When Clara ducked out of the room, smug and with her head held high, Ben exhaled and sank down onto his bed before dropping his face into his hands, overwrought with nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun for me to write! I sat down and wrote it all out in one sitting (I rarely do that), and revisiting Clara was quite the experience lol. She's a side character from my first gothic romance novel, but for whatever reason, I felt compelled to resurrect her for this fandom. I created her as a middle finger to the whole "the impure character must die" trope found in most old horror/gothic lit, and I felt her sexual openness would be a fun contrast to Ben's more stiff/uptight regard for intimacy...hence my choosing to write her again. 
> 
> I've missed Clara, so I hope you like her as much as I enjoy writing her! I can't guarantee speedy updates, but feedback is always appreciated. 💖 Just saying hi is welcome, too! You can find me on my Tumblr: **http://musicboxmemories.tumblr.com/** All of the photomanips in this fic feature Seth Numrich (of course!) and Evan Rachel Wood.
> 
>  **18th century slang featured:**  
>  high-flyer: Tories, Jacobites  
> loggerhead: blockhead or stupid fellow  
> bawdy house: brothel  
> boxing the Jesuit: to masturbate  
> the clap: venereal disease  
> fudge: nonsense  
> carvel's ring: a woman's private parts  
> highwaymen: robbers


	2. An Uncomfortable Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben is forced to adapt to wealthy customs. He and Clara share a candid talk.

As Clara promised, the mealtime gong was struck at six, and Ben mentally floundered about as he headed downstairs to be served with the family. Despite the proud, lofty posture he’d adopted for his role, he felt an uncomfortable, nettled heat beneath his collar as soon as William showed him into the sitting room. He had expected to be shown into the dining area, but it was soon apparent that the wealthy did things differently than the rest of the world. _No true surprise there._

Clara and Catherine both curtsied upon his arrival, and were dressed in ostentatious ruffles and skirts. Ben knew absolutely nothing about fashion, so all he could discern was the former was bedecked in a flashy, green gown that brought out the jade fire in her eyes, and the latter was wearing an equally flashy gown of pale yellow.

Jedediah Boyd (who hadn’t even spared him a friendly glance) was tall, thin and scarecrow-like, with a powdered wig and sharp, beady little eyes beneath a pair of spectacles. He snorted through his bulbous nose and led the group into the dining area, then seated himself at the foot of the table. The head of the table – where his wife was to go, Ben presumed – was empty, and Laura was oddly nowhere to be found.

Clara seated herself next, and when Charlotte followed, Ben awkwardly hesitated before falling in step behind the haughty redhead. Despite their inappropriate introduction, he _did_ feel the most comfortable in her presence. Catherine hadn’t truly spoken a word to him yet, and thus far, Jedediah was a no-starter, so Clara’s foul openness seemed like his safest bet.

“You look like a fish out of water,” Clara teased him, unfolding her napkin and draping it over her lap.

Blinking back at her (and probably looking much like the fish she spoke of, Ben thought), he fumblingly followed her example and unfolded his own napkin. “I feel a little ill,” he said, which, admittedly, wasn’t too far from the truth. He _did_ feel hopelessly sick, what with everyone’s eyes darting in between him and Jedediah. Was he supposed to do something? Was everyone waiting on _him?_

Mercifully, Jedediah spoke and recaptured everyone’s attention. “You must accept my apology, Mr. Ashby,” he said. “I was not aware that you would be coming to town so soon, so I have not yet prepared you a proper welcoming party. That is to be next week, if you can afford it into your schedule.”

Ben forced a smile and nodded. “But of course, Mr. Boyd – this is beyond sufficient. Thank you, sir.”

He seemed to have said the right thing, because Jedediah tilted his head in acknowledgement, then continued on, “Alas, we normally would have had other guests, but again: we did not know of your pending arrival.”

 _And thank God for that,_ Ben thought. He wasn’t so sure he could withstand an audience much beyond the three – four, if he counted William – people gathered in his presence.

While he fretted over his poor luck, several servants entered the dining room and began serving soup from tureens. Ben thanked each of them, which earned him a sharp, disapproving look from Jedediah. The servants, too, appeared shocked by his polite kindness, and seemed almost _fearful_ as they ducked their heads and continued doling out portions to the rest of the family.

Clara, however, chose to lead by his example and turned to the servant at her right. “Thank you, Agnes,” she said, beaming in a bright, beatific way. “It smells heavenly.”

“Clara!” Jedediah snapped.

Mulishly, her green eyes cut toward him and she pursed her mouth. “Yes, Father?”

“There are certain _hierarchies_ that must be kept, and you are currently in violation.”

“Am I?” Feigning ignorance, she pressed a hand to her cheek and gave an overdramatic gasp. “Why, I suppose I am! Silly me, thinking that a distinguished gentleman such as Mr. Ashby must _surely_ know hierarchies, and therefore the proper way to address them. After all, I am only a foolish, bottle-headed female. How could I _possibly_ hope to know the ways of the world?”

“Clara,” Catherine hissed at her side, shaking her head.

Discomfited, the servants all exchanged glances, and it was William who finally stepped forward with the tray of mutton. He set it down before Jedediah, then promptly backed away upon seeing the older man’s fiery, contemptuous look.

He lifted the knife and fork for cutting, then rubbed them together with indignation.

Ben’s mouth suddenly felt much, much too dry. Clearing his throat, he asked, “And what of your wife, sir? Is she unwell? Charlotte speaks of Mrs. Boyd quite often and fondly, so I had been hoping to make her acquaintance.”

The furrow between Jedediah’s brows softened, however slight. “She is presently resting,” he muttered. “Dear Laura is a lady of society, so she tends to fall into exhaustion quite often.”

Clara snorted. “That is Father’s romantic way of saying Mother is in her flowers. She _always_ works herself into a state, so I trust she won’t be coming down until tomorrow morning.”

Jedediah threw down his fork in disgust. “For God’s _sake,_ Clara, how many times must I tell you? When your mother is-”

“What?” Clara fired back, equally annoyed. “A woman’s monthly blood is _hardly_ a scandal, Father, so I wish you wouldn’t treat it as such!”

Ben’s mouth dropped. Never in his life had he _ever_ heard such open, bold-faced discussion of menstruation. In fact, he’d never heard discussion of it at _all,_ aside from men jeering about lying with women during their cycle. Slowly, a flush from secondhand embarrassment stained his cheeks, and when he caught Catherine’s gaze from across the table, she blushed as well and looked away.

Muttering to himself, Jedediah once more attempted to carve the mutton. While he sawed away at the dark meat, dishes of shellfish, corn, beans, and fruit were placed onto the table in addition to the soup and wine that were already present. Ben’s stomach rumbled, yet he felt disgust over the superfluous spread. While his men starved, these blustering peacocks ate and ate _well._ Clenching his hands into fists, he tried not to stew over his anger while everyone helped themselves to the varying dishes. Realizing that he still needed to blend in, he swallowed his pride and followed Clara’s example.

Ben spooned meager helpings of each dish onto his plate and grimaced. Every morsel sent a prick of guilt into his heart, and grudgingly, he wondered if he could somehow smuggle his leftovers to Caleb.

“You have the appetite of a bird,” Clara observed, smiling at him. “Surely you cannot be engaged to my sister...she’s a regular knight of the trenches.”

Ben chuckled, though the sound came out strained. “You’re far too hard on your sister,” he said. “There is nothing wrong with a healthy appetite.”

“Especially in the future, when she’s carrying your spawn,” she agreed. While the tray of freshly cut mutton was passed around, she added, “You _do_ intend to have children, don’t you? Lottie has it in her head that that’s all she’s good for – and in a way, I suppose that _is_ a woman’s place – but I’d personally rather dive head-first into the sea. I couldn’t imagine anything more dreadful.”

Ben stared at her, aghast. “Child-rearing? _Dreadful?”_

“I suppose you’re right,” Clara said, dismissive. “It’s hardly dreadful – _taxing,_ perhaps, is a much better word.”

“But you would have a nursemaid,” Ben coolly pointed out. “Your class is afforded a luxury that most women are not.”

“And _men_ are afforded a luxury most _women_ are not,” she spat, the fire in her voice astonishing him. “While you get to lie on top of my sister and rut about like a boor, _she_ has to worry about whether or not it will be her last year on earth.” Furiously, she stabbed her fork into a piece of mutton, then slapped it onto Ben’s trencher. “There’s a _reason_ we womenfolk turn our wedding gowns into burial shrouds, you realize.”

Paling, Ben appraised her in stunned silence. This woman was _confounding._ Who on earth had raised her? Surely not the proud, taciturn man at the foot of the table…

Clearing his throat, Ben managed to compose himself and passed the tray back to William. “Forgive me, Miss Boyd,” he said, “for I meant no offense. I’ll admit I’ve never thought-”

“No,” she coolly agreed, “men never _do_ think of a woman’s feelings, and that’s precisely the problem.” Expression softening, her shoulders slouched and she sighed. “I beg your forgiveness as well, Mr. Ashby. You’re actually… _tolerable,_ truth be told, and as far as men go, you are not the worst.”

“That’s high praise, coming from my sister,” Catherine offered, a slight smile on her lips. “She is quite fastidious when it comes to my welfare – Lottie’s, too.” With a pointed look in Clara’s direction, she added, “Now, if only she would be nearly so concerned with her _own_ happiness.”

Clara ignored her, and Ben lifted his mutton off his trencher and took a bite. After months – nay, _years_ – of not having eaten properly, it was difficult not to rip into the meat like a heathen.

Unfortunately, Clara’s hand moved over top of his thigh to stop him, commanding his attention. Ben nearly choked on his mutton at the brazen gesture. To his surprise, the look on her face was that of amusement, and not seduction or ill intent.

“You are not using your fork,” she whispered, the words delivered from the side of her mouth.

A jolt of panic blitzed through Ben, and he stiffened, swallowing his mouthful with visible difficulty. “I…I-I do not much care for frivolities,” he whispered back, “so I am inclined to only use silverware whenever necessary.”

“And why should you do otherwise?” she agreed, smiling more freely. “Why, with being a man of such vast import, I imagine you _hardly_ have time for silliness such as forks.”

Ben couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or making fun of him. Nevertheless, he grudgingly set his mutton onto his trencher, then lifted his fork and made a show of stabbing it into the meat. _If only he could stab it into his own ear canal._

The first course came and went, and after the servants changed the dinner cloth – such a ridiculous practice! – a second course came out and was set down before them. Fruit tarts, jellies and creams were now tantalizingly on display, and Clara gleefully plucked a peach tart before setting it onto her trencher.

“I trust the war will be over any day now,” Jedediah said conversationally. “General Washington is on the run – that old fox can’t keep running without being bagged, you’ll see.”

Clara sighed. “Oh, Father, must we _always_ circle back to politics?”

“No, no, I quite agree,” Ben spoke up, relieved that the subject had been broached naturally. “In fact, as well as getting to know your lovely family, I had every intention of seeing how I could aid in the Tory cause.”

“Oh?” Jedediah eyed him over his spectacles. “In what regard?”

“Any regard you see fit, sir. I am but a lowly, humble man at your service – at the _King’s_ service.” Smiling, Ben bowed his head and moved a hand over his heart, as if pledging his very allegiance. He heard Clara snort, though he didn’t spare her his attention.

Taking a sip of madeira, Jedediah hummed to himself, then set his silver cup off to the side. “You said your business was in what again, Mr. Ashby…?”

“Shipbuilding.”

“Ah. Well, that could actually be quite beneficial to the cause,” he allowed, his eyes gleaming. “Governor Tryon is always in need of extra ships. The more who are ready and willing to do their part for this illustrious, wonderful city, the better, I always say.”

“I would be honored, sir,” Ben assured him. “I could also smuggle items for the governor, whether it be here or abroad – the soldiers, as well. No task is too great for the cause.”

Jedediah lifted his cup again. “Hear, hear!”

Clara looked to her sister and sighed. “All this talk of war has made me rather vexed as of late, and desirous of some _much_ -needed stimulation." Expectantly, she turned to face Ben. “Would you care to accompany me into town tomorrow afternoon, Philip?”

For the second time that evening, Jedediah threw down his fork in disgust. “For Heaven’s sake, Clara, can you at least behave as though you and Mr. Ashby aren’t familiars?”

“But we are!” she cried, her chin stiff with annoyance. “He is to be Lottie’s husband, so that makes him family!”

“I do not mean to be an imposition,” Ben quickly spoke up. “I will gladly welcome myself as a familiar to this family, Mr. Boyd, but if it insults your sensibilities, I will also gladly denounce it.”

Jedediah huffed, then irritably mopped at his glistening brow. “Spoken like a true gentleman,” he muttered. “I thank you for your patience, Mr. Ashby – nay, _Philip._ Seeing how you are Charlotte’s beau, I am glad to extend the offer of deeper acquaintance.”

A seed of relief bloomed within Ben’s breast, and as the servants came out to change the tablecloth for dessert, he finally felt in control of his situation.

* * *

As was customary, the menfolk stayed in the dining area for more drink and conversation, and the women retired to the drawing room. In spite of Clara’s vulgarities, Ben was rather sorry to see her go. She’d provided a much-needed buffer between her father and himself, and anxiously, he swirled his port while Jedediah moved on to his third glass of sherry.

“It’s a wonder Charlotte’s managed to sway me into this,” he muttered, motioning at William to pour him another drink. “I am no fool, you realize. I know every great family in the area – Philadelphia, as well – so I _have_ at least heard of your lineage. You are from good, sensible stock, Philip, and I would be a complete loggerhead to dismiss that.”

Ben swallowed. “Thank you, sir… But as a true Philadelphian gentleman, I have come all this way so that I might request Charlotte’s hand – on _your_ terms, not mine.”

“Hmph.” Swallowing his sherry in three gulps, Jedediah gave a pleased hum, then made another impatient gesture to his servant. While William filled his cup, he rolled his eyes in thought. “The match is sudden, though not ill-advised. I can scarcely say no to little Lottie – I trust you feel much the same way – so all in all, I feel compelled to acquiesce to this union. And why not? A fine, shipbuilding empire coupled with my renown as an attorney will get us far in this world, my boy.”

“Aye.”

“You what?”

“Er…yes. Of course you’re right, Mr. Boyd,” Ben stammered.

“Please! Call me Jed.” Gesturing to William, he indicated that he refill Ben’s cup. “Drink up, my boy! This calls for a celebration!”

 _To your death or mine?_ he bitterly wondered.

* * *

Ben couldn’t sleep. Ever since he’d been a young boy, it had always been difficult for him to fall asleep in new places. Perhaps it was some type of primordial survival tactic – if you laid awake, you weren’t in danger of attack – and here in the Boyd mansion, he was completely surrounded by an unknowing enemy. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

During the afternoon, Ben had seen a library on the first floor, so he grabbed a lit candle and made his way from his room to the downstairs. To his unease, he discovered that the room was already occupied.

Sitting on a plush, high-backed chair by the fire, Clara Boyd was curled up with a book, her feet perched on the cushion’s edge and putting her legs in a _most_ unladylike position. Ben flushed and moved to retreat, but that was when she noticed him.

“Have you come to escape your thoughts?” she asked, a wry smile on her lips. “I couldn’t sleep either, if it’s any consolation. I’ve been too fraught with grief over my behavior.”

Unable to help it, Ben mirrored her smile. _“You_ regret your behavior?”

“Ah. Fair enough. I suppose I don’t,” she agreed, simpering. “Not _truly,_ anyway – not where Father is concerned. That old goat deserves every bit of my vitriol.” Brow creasing in annoyance, she huffed and set aside her book.

Ben caught sight of the cover and arched a brow. _“The Taming of the Shrew?_ How relevant.”

“You’re not clever, you realize.” A smile filled Clara’s face, belying her irritation. “However, I _am_ rather sorry for how I spoke to _you._ I’ve been told I’m a lot to handle on a first meeting, and I was in rare form today. Woman’s blood is probably not one of your favorite subjects.” When Ben’s face turned a brilliant scarlet, she laughed, her eyes sparkling while she drew her knees in toward her chest. “Why are you being so modest? Have you never read a book on the human body?”

Ben hesitated, wondering if he should indulge her, before he slowly shook his head.

“Ah, it’s just as well,” she said. “Charlotte is as pure as they come, so you needn't worry yourself with venereal disease, or any of the other topics in those books.”

Ben gaped at her, completely stunned. Clara spoke and behaved much like a man, and yet she was both soft and refined. How had she managed it? Jedediah clearly detested the behavior, but she’d never been shipped off to a nunnery, from what he could tell. Perhaps Clara’s misbehavior stemmed more from recent events, as opposed to a gradual build-up since birth. Or, more likely still, perhaps the war had brought any plans of remediation to a halt.

“How did it go?” she asked him, dragging his thoughts to a close. “That is, how did everything go with Father? You were both talking for quite a while.”

Hesitant, Ben set his candle onto a small table, then moved over and had a seat in the chair directly across from her. “Rather well, I’d say. He has approved of the marriage.”

“Oh! ‘Rather well,’ indeed!” Clara crowed. “Welcome to the family then, Philip – or should I say, the death of your dignity?” She grinned and hugged her knees. “As an honorary member for the past twenty years now, I can assure you that sanity is only a state of mind. Unfortunately, _in_ sanity is the only state you’ll find here with the Boyds.”

Ben reclined in his seat, mirroring her relaxed, tranquil posture. There was something wholly disarming about her – _freeing,_ almost – and he found himself envying how easily Clara flitted from one subject to the other. Nothing bothered her. After growing up as a reverend’s son, he craved that lack of guilt and disappointment. Her father clearly was ashamed of her, but she didn’t care, and _that_ was what he coveted.

“Do you love my sister?”

The question slapped Ben back to attention, and a sharp sensation of panic took root in his stomach. Finally, he managed to choke out, “Of course I do…yes. Undeniably.”

“It’s all right if you don’t,” Clara softly said. “Many men and women don’t marry for love…they do it for family or duty, or a little of both. I suppose I just wanted to know why this marriage came on so suddenly, and under the utmost secrecy. Despite my teasing remarks, I really _do_ love my sister. I would do anything for her – for Catherine, too.”

Thinking of his own siblings, Ben offered a knowing nod. “Family is important,” he agreed. “In the end, they’re all you have – all you can count on.”

“Then you understand,” she affirmed, nodding. “Even though my parents are both dreadful people, they’ve somehow managed to sire true gems – real diamonds in the rough.” Sighing, Clara drew herself up and took hold of her book, curling it across her breast. “I suppose I should retire now. Will you still be accompanying me tomorrow, Philip?”

Rising from his seat, Ben bowed at the waist and nodded. “It would be my honor.”

With a grin, Clara teased him, “You really _must_ love Lottie, seeing how you're suddenly trying to earn my good graces.” Slapping the Shakespeare book against his chest, she quoted, “‘By this reckoning he is more a shrew than she.’”

Bewildered, Ben moved to reply, but she’d already turned and left him with the tome in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how I was able to write yet another chapter in one sitting, but I got to do some dining research, so that was fun! **NOTE:** I know Ben ate with a fork and knife in 1x2, but since forks were only starting to become popular around that time, and many men considered using a fork "effeminate," I decided that Ben probably wouldn't use silverware on a normal basis. I've noticed most period dramas don't adhere to common eating habits anyway (i.e. sipping from a bowl instead of using a spoon), so...I'll just stop talking now, haha. Me @ me: nobody cares!
> 
> I used Evan Rachel Wood for the photomanip in the beginning. Thanks to those who've clicked on this drivel to give it a read!
> 
> Next off, Caleb will come looking for Ben.
> 
> 18th century slang featured:  
> bottle-headed: void of wit  
> in her flowers: a woman being on her period  
> knight of the trenches: a great eater  
> trencher: plate


	3. Tensions Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara grows suspicious of Ben's behavior. Caleb comes to check on Ben's progress.

After Agnes had helped Clara get dressed for the day, the latter came downstairs in search of her sister. She found Catherine in the conservatory, tinkling the keys of the well-polished pianoforte.

But rather than sit down and listen, as was her usual custom, Clara abruptly stormed over and stilled her sister’s expertly playing hands. The strawberry blonde jerked away from her, brow pinched and expression sour.

“What’s gotten into you?” Catherine demanded. “I was just finishing up with-”

“We need to talk,” Clara cut in. Her green eyes were sharp like sea glass. “It’s about that man…Mr. _Philip_ Ashby.”

Bemused, Catherine shook her head. “Why are you saying his name like that?”

Checking around to make certain they were alone, Clara quickly had a seat alongside her sister and took Catherine’s hands. “That man is a liar,” she said. When the girl moved to speak, Clara shook her head, cutting her off. “Don’t talk over me,” she warned. “Though sweet and polite and _quite_ handsome, Mr. Ashby is woefully out of his depth. When I spoke with him yesterday, he told me he didn’t have any clothes, nor servants, nor a carriage.”

Catherine shrugged, unimpressed. “Surely he had a reason for that.”

“Indeed, he did! Complete hogwash, too,” Clara said, annoyed. “Philip claimed he was robbed by highwaymen, and that they stole all of his servants _and_ the carriage, to boot.”

“But what if it’s true?”

“And what if it’s _not?”_ Clara countered. “Could you truly live with yourself, were we to welcome some _stranger_ into this family?”

“W-well-”

“He’s always so nervous,” she continued. “Any time we speak, he gets all shy and tongue-tied. That is _not_ the man Charlotte described in her letters.”

Catherine bit her lip, perplexed. “You _are_ right about that,” she allowed. “Charlotte said her Philip is blonde, tall, and has a commanding way about him. There’s hardly anything _commanding_ about this Mr. Ashby…”

“Nor is he witty and dry,” Clara agreed. “I understand that we all have different personalities with different people – little _masks,_ if you will – but I cannot imagine this Philip being anything but _reticent_ in the company of others. Why, he seems far too quick to take orders. Father may appreciate it, but Charlotte would not. She’s always been a fan of the brash and domineering sorts.”

With a hand fluttering to her throat, Catherine shook her head. “Goodness, I wish you wouldn’t keep spinning your tales… You’ve always been the imaginative one in this family, and this is by _far_ your worst tale yet!”

“I pray you’re right about that,” Clara said. “But truly, can I be blamed for having concern for my family? For my dear _sister?”_

“But what do you intend to do?” Catherine pressed. “Even if he _is_ an imposter, it isn’t as though you can just accuse him of such slander!”

“Leave it to me,” Clara said. “I intend to follow through with my request. For you see, I first became suspicious of him long before supper last night, so my invitation was but a ruse. I intend to get to know this man – to earn his _trust_ – and perhaps in time, he will put my mind at ease.”

“Oh, Clara…” Anxious, Catherine shook her head. “I don’t know about this plan of yours. It sounds dangerous.”

“Dangerous? How on earth could it be _dangerous?”_ Scoffing, the redhead rolled her eyes. “If I survived listening to Mr. Donoghue’s pompous, long-winded rant about the price of ink, I can _certainly_ seduce a man with my feminine wiles.”

Catherine balked. _“Seduce?_ Do you actually mean to…?”

“Oh, heavens no!” Clara assured her. “This man may still be dear Lottie’s betrothed, so I wouldn’t dream of compromising that. No…” She wagged a finger. “I merely intend to _investigate_ and ensure that this family stays safe. With the war in our very backyard, we can never be too careful about who we let in through these doors.”

Catherine paled. “But…if he truly _isn’t_ Mr. Ashby, why on earth would he pretend that he was? He could have easily told us we were mistaken!”

“Who knows?” Clara asked, flicking a hand. “Perhaps he wishes to rob us blind, or ravish us while we lie helpless in our beds. Men have done far worse things, you know.”

Catherine drew her arms around herself in a loose, makeshift embrace. “Oh, _why_ must you so cruelly spiral me into a state? You _know_ I have a nervous constitution!”

“I need you aware,” Clara said, “just in case he _is_ a man of poor repute. But I promise you this, darling, I _will_ find out – just give me a little time.” Tapping her sister’s knee, she added, “Besides, this will all be sorted out soon enough. Lottie will be home again before you know it, and then we will solve this once and for all.”

“I don’t like it,” Catherine said, shaking her head. “What if he knows that _we_ know?”

“We don’t know _anything,”_ Clara reminded her. “Despite my suspicions, I don’t actually believe this man to be a dangerous sort. When I spoke to him last night, he seemed far more interested in my reading material than the family itself.”

Catherine’s brow furrowed. “Reading material? When on earth did you speak to him about books?”

“After bed last night,” Clara said, dismissive. “Neither of us could sleep, so he joined me in the library. It was a rather uneventful affair, truth be told, and I gave him some half-hearted apology for how I’d treated him.”

Catherine snorted. “If he actually knew you, I suppose he’d recognize that _all_ your apologies are faulty.”

“Oh, they are not! Though truth be told, I _was_ actually a little sorry…I rather like him.” Shrugging, Clara offered a sheepish smile. “Even if he _is_ putting on an act, he’s by far the most interesting distraction we’ve had in months. Father’s law friends are so _boring,_ and the British soldiers aren’t much better. Their egos are a huge nuisance.”

Catherine’s mouth grew pinched. “You are working on my nerves, and I do _not_ appreciate it. Firstly, you imply that Philip Ashby is _not_ Philip Ashby, and now you are speaking as though he’s at the height of your social calendar!”

“I am not!” Clara exclaimed, agitated. “I am merely saying he is _not_ a huge nuisance…which, ironically, is what I named that one soldier’s cock.”

_“Clara Boyd!”_

Giggling, the redhead hid her grin behind her hand, her green eyes flashing with mischief. “What?” she asked, grinning more broadly. “Am I not to have a bit of fun?”

Sighing, Catherine irritably turned and closed the lid on the pianoforte, all desire to play having left with her sister’s perversions. “I suppose we should head in for breakfast… What are we to do when we encounter Mr. Ashby?”

“Nothing,” Clara said as if it were obvious. “He is our guest, so we are to act naturally. If he thinks something is wrong, he will clam up and be taciturn…or rather, more so than he is already.”

Twisting her hands, Catherine nodded and rose from the bench. “Tell me honestly: do you _truly_ believe him a man of ill repute?”

Following after her sister, Clara stood and took the girl’s shoulders, her eyes shining with fondness before she pressed a kiss to the blonde’s brow. “Of course not,” she soothed. “As you’ve said, I have an overactive imagination. I just cannot help but exercise caution, least especially with all the goings-on in our very street. If he is after our money, I want to know about it.”

Catherine’s brow creased. “Should we tell Father? Or Mother?”

“No.” Shaking her head, Clara paused to brush back a loosened lock of her sister’s hair. “There’s no need to senselessly worry them. I suppose I should have spared you the same courtesy, but I want you on guard, should he try and deceive you.”

“He won’t,” Catherine promised. “I intend to keep to myself.”

“Good – that’s a marvelous idea,” Clara agreed. “You just leave all the talking to me.” Reaching down, she took her sister’s hands and squeezed. “Now come! We have ourselves a breakfast to host.”

* * *

When Ben took his place at the dining room table, he was somehow more agitated about the customs than the night prior. The rules of dining etiquette, though simple enough, rankled him since they were clearly done more for _show_ than necessity. Many things in wealthy life, he was beginning to find, were done for the benefit of braggarts. It aggrieved him that he had to partake in such appalling waste.

After thanking William for his help, Ben grudgingly placed small portions of food onto his trencher. Even _breakfast_ was superfluous. Eggs, toast, fruit, nuts, and various jellies were laid out before them, and guilt lanced through his heart when he thought of the Continental soldiers. They were undoubtedly eating whatever rations could be scrounged up, which was a far cry from _his_ current experience.

While Clara prattled on about some party and Catherine spared him cautious, furtive glances, Ben sighed and picked at his eggs – and yes, this time with an _actual_ fork.

“Where are your parents?” he asked them.

Clara pursed her mouth, not appreciating the interruption of her story. “Father rarely dines with us,” she said, feigning indifference. “He prefers to eat early, and then rush off to meet with his clients. And Mother…” She sighed, checking the hands on the grandfather clock. “If I am not mistaken, she should be barreling in here any moment now. She’ll probably be a bit lushey, but that’s nothing unusual.”

“Clara!” Catherine hissed, appalled.

Clara ignored her. She merely flashed Ben a broad, beatific smile. “How did you sleep, Philip?”

He shrugged. “Terribly, truth be told…though I appreciate you lending me that book.” Ben speared a bit of egg onto his fork, then shoveled it into his mouth, the food almost tasteless amidst his distraction. He didn’t bloody well _care_ about trivialities, and now that he knew his target was missing – that Jedediah was _not even in the house_ – he sourly wondered how he could continue his investigation. Was Boyd’s law office close by? Would he consider it _unwelcome,_ were he to receive a visitor?

Unfortunately, a shrill, unpleasant groan rose above the clink of silverware, piercing through Ben’s thoughts and causing him to cringe. In the entryway, a tall, comely blonde woman stood holding her head between her hands, her brow furrowed and her pretty mouth pursed as she groaned yet again.

 _Lushey, indeed,_ he wryly thought.

“What’s all the racket?” Laura Boyd complained, still rubbing her temples. “Why, I can scarcely hear myself think!”

“Neither can we,” Clara muttered. Falsely perking up, she added, “It’s so good of you to finally come down, Mother. You have missed the event of the season – Charlotte’s fiancé has come calling!”

Squinting at the trio, Laura looked between each face with clear difficulty before she exhaled, dropping her hands at her sides. “I did hear about your arrival, Mr. Ashby,” she said. “Do forgive my absence! I have been plagued by a dreadful, _dreadful_ ailment, and did not feel well enough to come downstairs and make introductions.”

Rising from his seat, Ben offered a smile and courteous bow. “I wouldn’t dream of making you come down for me,” he assured her. “Your presence now _more_ than makes up for your absence.”

“Oh…” Laura tittered, a pretty pink blossoming across her cheeks. Clara made a gagging face, but she ignored her daughter and strode across the room, her grin genuine as she took Ben’s hand and pressed it with her own. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Ashby. Once you wed Charlotte, I trust our home will be filled with handsome, strapping young boys such as yourself.”

Clara snorted. “What, do you plan to form a harem?”

Curling her upper lip, Laura shot her daughter a warning glance. “I meant _grandchildren,_ you vile little doxie!”

Catherine paled at their mother’s chastisement, but Clara laid a hand on her sister's wrist, sensing her distress.

Laura returned her attention to Ben. “I must say, I hadn’t realized our Charlotte’s beau was so handsome,” she purred. “In her letters, she didn’t go into much detail…it must have been to keep you all to herself, no doubt!”

Ben forced a weak laugh. “Yes, undoubtedly.”

“Your humbleness is truly something to strive for, Mr. Ashby,” Clara muttered, rolling her eyes. “You are a beacon of modesty!”

“Ignore her,” Laura snapped. “Clara is a lonely, wretched girl who only wishes to douse the happiness of others.”

“Yes. I daresay I _am_ all of those things, what with having withstood living _here_ for twenty years,” Clara groused.

Ben looked between both women, genuinely shocked by the vitriol and lack of respect in their relationship. He knew Laura was owed deference from her daughter, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a sharp, inexplicable pang of pity for Clara… Perhaps because he, too, knew what it was like to fall short in the eyes of a parent. That pain could never be matched.

Laura, ever a fan of theatrics, feigned a swoon and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I need to sit down,” she moaned. “All this senseless chatter has aggravated my condition…”

“Allow me,” Ben offered, quick to pull out a chair. As he seated her, he caught Clara’s gaze and she responded with a swift, immediate eyeroll. “Er…are you feeling better, Mrs. Boyd? Shall I fetch William?”

“No, no,” she said, waving off the idea, “I’m _much_ better now that you’re here. A big, strong man is precisely what this household needs!”

Clara shook her head, furiously cutting up her eggs. But rather than eat them, she just as furiously shoved aside her trencher. “You are free to fawn over, ingratiate, and even _flirt with_ Lottie’s intended, and yet _I_ am the doxie?” Irate, she lifted her chin and glowered at the older woman. “Father may not be home as often as it pleases you, Mother, but at _least_ have the decency to keep your desires secret!”

Laura drew up from her seat, clearly not having remembered her feigned ailment. “Why, you miserable little doggess! I should have you thrown out into the street!”

“Please do!” Clara seethed. “At least _then_ I could finally become the woman you’ve always claimed!”

Catherine burst into tears, and despite the look of regret in Clara’s eyes, the redhead steeled her shoulders and stalked from the room.

Awkwardly, Ben lingered near Laura, unsure of his place now that the natural order had been disturbed.

“Well!” the matriarch exclaimed. “Let’s conclude all this nonsense, shall we? Catherine: stop crying. Such weakness is unsightly. And Mr. Ashby…” She turned to Ben with a bright, almost wolfish smile. “Might you tell me about your business?”

Ben flinched at her close proximity, but managed a nod. “I would be delighted.”

“Splendid! Let us reclaim our seats.”

As he followed her example, his eyes strayed toward the dining room entrance, half expecting to see Clara peering in from the doorway.

* * *

The morning came and went, and without any true success. No matter what Ben tried, he couldn’t get Laura to open up about her husband or the Tory cause. Either she didn’t know the answers, or she was genuinely too vain to talk about much other than herself... A common problem in this household, he was beginning to find.

So now, frustrated and annoyed, Ben sat reading in the library. He flipped through Clara’s copy of _The Taming of the Shrew,_ his eyes scanning the text without truly processing it.

“Good afternoon, Philip!”

Jolting to attention, Ben looked up and blinked, unnerved by Clara’s decidedly roguish smile. “Uh…good afternoon, Miss Boyd,” he greeted. When she continued to smile, he cleared his throat and pointedly returned his attention to the book.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Just as pointedly, she yanked the novel from his hand and tossed it aside. When he scowled, she placed her hands on her hips. “You promised to accompany me into town today, remember? Or are you one of those ‘yes men’ who only says what we Boyds wish to hear?”

“If I choose to lie, I do so for a just reason,” Ben coolly said.

“Oh?” Simpering, Clara teased, “Then you don’t find kissing my father’s bottom to be _just?_ Good for you, Philip!”

Annoyed, Ben tried to reach for his book again, but she pushed it farther out of reach.

“Why are you being so stubborn?” she pressed. “Father isn’t even here, and neither is your darling Charlotte, so I can’t imagine you actually _wanting_ to dwell within this stuffy old house.”

Grudgingly, Ben hated to admit that she had a point. If he stayed indoors, it was doubtful that he’d be able to make any headway on his mission. Going out with Clara, however trying, might loosen a few local tongues and lead him to helpful acquaintances. According to the Boyds, he only had a week’s time to get everything in order before the _real_ Philip Ashby came to town.

Wearily, he asked her, “Where are we going, then?”

“Just for a walk,” she assured him, triumphant. “And you look _quite_ dashing in my father’s clothes, I might add. I daresay he won’t even realize they’re gone.”

Ben scrunched his brow. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Heavens, no! Father isn’t exactly the _acquiescent_ type, you realize.” With a wink, she gestured for him to follow, so he rose and accompanied her toward the foyer. “How do you find the breeches?”

“A bit tight, actually.”

“Perfect!” Amusement flashed across Clara’s eyes, and she plucked his tricorne from the hat rack, turning to hand it over. “Just remember: _I_ am the one helping you out of the goodness of my heart, so you’d better be nice to me, Philip Ashby.”

As she peered up at him with her bright, coquettish smile, Ben couldn’t help but feel there was an odd underlying meaning to her words…

* * *

It was a pleasant, sunny day, and Ben was notably distracted as they strode along the cobblestone streets.

“Why do you keep staring at everyone?” Clara asked, pursing her mouth. “It’s a little offensive, you realize. I’m perfectly interesting – _marvelously_ interesting, in fact – and yet you’re barely paying me any attention!”

Ben glanced down at her, then returned to observing civilians. Thus far, nobody looked particularly suspicious or helpful, so he wasn’t sure why he’d been hoping to glean information via people gazing.

“Could we stop by your father’s office?” he asked. “I’d like to look around.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Spoken like a true businessman,” she muttered. “You know, perhaps I was wrong about you, Philip. Maybe you really _aren’t_ interesting, after all.”

“Perish the thought,” Ben muttered back.

Peering up at him from beneath her parasol, Clara snorted and twirled the lace sunshade. “How did you meet Lottie, anyway? You don’t exactly exude ‘fine dining and parties,’ so I can’t imagine how your paths might have crossed.”

Ben tensed his hands. “You give me too little credit,” he said, still taking in the sights. “We met at a party hosted by a mutual friend. While Charlotte inquired about my business, I just so happened to fall in love.”

Clara snorted. “You fell in love because she asked about _shipbuilding?_ Men truly are all the same, aren’t they?” He ignored her, so she continued, “Who was this mutual friend?”

_Oh, bloody hell._

Straightening, Ben shrugged as though it were of no consequence. “You wouldn’t know him.”

 _“Wouldn’t_ I? She is my sister, Philip. I know everything and every _one_ she meets.” Canting her head, she appraised him with clear interest. “Unless there’s a reason you don’t _wish_ me to know?”

“Of course not, I…I beg your forgiveness.” Fumbling through the Philadelphian names in his mental stock, he plucked one free and said, “It was Augustus Winthrop. He’s rather partial to matchmaking, so I failed to realize it was a set-up until…w-well…I was already smitten, naturally.” To his surprise, Clara almost seemed _disappointed._ “Was that not what you were expecting?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted, frowning. “I daresay it wasn’t.”

Ben found it a strange response, but wasn’t complaining. At least her suspicions – whatever they might have been – seemed to be diverted for now. Pulling his tricorne down over his eyebrows, he continued his furtive appraisal while they walked at a more leisurely pace.

“Good day to you, Miss Boyd!”

Both Ben and Clara turned their heads, and the former panicked once he spotted a redcoat approaching.

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Markum!” she crowed. “Have you met Mr. Philip Ashby? He is Charlotte’s betrothed.”

The soldier squinted in surprise, then looked to Ben, who’d drawn his hat down even farther. “I cannot say that I have,” he said, extending a hand. “A pleasure, sir! I am Adam Markum.”

Quickly, Ben shook the man’s hand, then muttered, “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have to piss.”

Clara drew back in surprise, but Adam seemed nonplussed by the admission.

“Pick an alley, sir, and perhaps we can speak again soon,” he said, chuckling. “Many congratulations on your engagement!”

Ben wordlessly tipped his hat, then ignored Clara’s spluttering and walked toward the nearest alley on unsteady, jittery legs. _That had been much, much too close for comfort._ He knew his face wasn’t readily noticeable or even _known_ amongst the enemy, but he didn’t wish to take any chances.

Just as he was nearing his safety net, two strong hands lurched from the shadows and yanked him into the alley. Ben cried out, and found himself slammed against the brick siding.

“Have you lost your feckin’ mind?!” Caleb snarled.

Overwhelmed by the attack, Ben barely processed his friend’s words before taking note of the clean, freshly pressed garments of bright red. “Have _you?”_ he fired back, indicating the British uniform Caleb was wearing. “This place is teeming with redcoats!”

“Aye, which is precisely why I planned ahead…something _you_ could learn a bit from, I see.”

Irritated, Ben tried to pry himself loose, but was unsuccessful. “An opportunity arose.”

“Ah, an _opportunity,_ was it? When I said to have some fun, I didn’t mean with some bushel bubby from the enemy side!”

“It wasn’t intentional!” Ben growled back. “Somehow, for whatever nonsensical reason, the Boyds believe me to be the eldest’s fiancé.”

Caleb gave a scornful hoot. “No offense, Tall-boy, but you don’t exactly strike me as ‘man of the town’ material. How’d you manage to pull off this one, uh?"

“It’s...still a matter to be seen, admittedly. They keep speaking of how the eldest should be home within a week, so I don’t have much time to acquire information.”

“So grease the wheels.”

“What do you think I’ve been _trying_ to do?”

“The middle daughter, from the looks of it.”

“Caleb, I swear to God...”

“Is this fribble bothering you?”

Caleb and Ben jolted apart, and the former started dusting off the latter’s coat. “Why, not at all!” Caleb exclaimed. “Was just giving him some mighty sound advice, that’s all.”

The redcoat frowned, looking them over with disbelief. “Very well,” he agreed. “Just quit with your fun, won’t you? If you insist on being a back-gammon player, at the very least have the decency to do it in an inn.”

Ben’s face flooded scarlet at the implication, but Caleb was already waving him off.

“Right, you are! Good man. Thanks for the advice,” he said. After the soldier had walked off, he lowered his voice and muttered, “Miserable chub. I should’ve stuck my knife right in his-”

“Caleb,” Ben hissed, exasperated, “the mission! I trust that _is_ why you came out all this way, correct?”

Agitated, the whaler spat, “You’re getting testy with _me,_ now, are you? I’m not the one who jeopardized the entire damn thing with some deviant, ridiculous plot for my gaying instrument!” He lewdly grabbed himself, half in mockery, and half in genuine frustration. “So, what’s the angle here exactly, Ben? Even if your so-called _fiancée_ takes a week to arrive, that doesn’t mean you won’t give yourself away beforehand!”

“Thanks for the faith,” Ben muttered, re-adjusting his coat. “I know what I’m doing, Caleb.”

 _“Do_ you? For Chrissake, Tall-boy, you’re squiring a woman around town who could easily get you hanged! In case you’re forgetting, the Boyds aren’t too keen on Rebels!”

“Keep your voice down!” Ben hissed. “Don’t you think I _know_ what I’m dealing with here? I’m the one who wrote the bloody report!”

Both men fell silent, the former tensing his jaw while Caleb huffed and spat out the side of his mouth.

“Suit yourself,” he coolly said. “I risked my arse coming out all this way, but apparently you’ve got it under control.”

Ben sighed, shaking his head. “Caleb, wait…don’t just-”

“If you learn any valuable information, go to our proposed contact.”

Hesitant, he nodded. “Archibald Smith…yes, of course. I remember.”

“I’ll do the same, so I’d advise paying the tavern a visit each day,” Caleb said, his gaze hard. “I mean it, Tall-boy. Don’t fuck this up – and _not_ just because it’s important to the cause.”

Ben sensed the underlying sentimentality and nodded, offering the other man a handshake. When Caleb grudgingly returned the gesture, it was clear that his unspoken apology had been accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my own amusement, I've started making photomanips for each chapter. I went back and added some for chapters 1&2 as well, in case my readers who've been here since the beginning missed them! I'm using Evan Rachel Wood for Clara.
> 
> Next up: Ben gets himself into trouble. But when does he not? :')
> 
> 18th century slang featured:  
> lushey: drunk  
> doxie: prostitute  
> doggess: a "polite" way of saying bitch  
> bushel bubby: full-breasted woman  
> man of the town: a rake, a debauchee  
> fribble: an effeminate fop  
> back-gammon player: a sodomite  
> chub: a foolish fellow; one who's easily imposed upon  
> gaying instrument: dick


	4. Curiosity Killed the Major

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets himself into a bit of trouble.

Ben’s disappearance was far longer than what merited a piss, in Clara’s opinion, and when they were reunited again in the streets, she gave him an impatient wave of her parasol. “Goodness! Did you have difficulties with your _sugar stick,_ or were you sightseeing again?”

“I got waylaid by a soldier,” Ben replied, feigning indifference. “We hadn’t seen one another since before the war, so please forgive my lack of foresight.” 

“You could have introduced us,” Clara muttered. Slipping her arm through his (and ignoring how his body tensed at her liberty), she added, “I’m quite good at ending a conversation. That is, if he was a bother? You seem a bit on edge.”

Despite her prying tone, Ben snorted. “I could imagine you ending a conversation quite easily, yes. You need only open your mouth, and-”

“All right, there’s no need for that,” Clara snapped. “At least _I’m_ not a dullard.”

“You believe me a dullard?” Despite his prior nerves, Ben’s lips lifted into a smile. “If I truly _am_ a dullard, you seem rather eager to be in my company.”

Clara’s mouth pursed, her green eyes flashing. “I am a woman of society, Mr. Ashby. I am _strongly_ in need of a chaperone, and as fate would have it, you just so happen to be the only eligible man on hand.” She shook her head. “I hope you aren’t letting Mother’s fawning inclinations stir you. I do _not_ share in her sentiments.”

“Then I have been blessed,” Ben muttered. He felt her fingers dig into his arm, but didn’t acknowledge the gesture. “Is your father’s office close by?”

“Ugh, _that_ again?” Rolling her eyes, Clara groused, “And to think: we womenfolk claim men only reason with their hornpipe, when in actuality, they’re far more obsessed with business and economics. Such a bore! Though truth be told, I would _much_ rather you speak to me about your hornpipe.” She spared him a sly smile, which Ben vigorously ignored. “Why are you so interested, anyway? Are you intending to study law?”

“I’m to be part of this family,” Ben quickly supplied. “As a future in-law, I intend to do whatever I can to aid in the Boyd success story, whether it be through shipbuilding or law. And in order to properly do so, I need a decent knowledge of the goings-on in his office.”

Clara elevated her shoulders. “Very well…it certainly won’t be an _enjoyable_ afternoon now, but I cannot argue with your reasoning.”

“Oh, no?” In spite of himself, Ben couldn’t help but smile again.

Clara turned up her nose. “How old are you again, Mr. Ashby? For being such a young man, you seem quite confident in your arrogance. Is there a _reason_ you believe yourself so charming?”

Sighing through his nose, Ben rolled his eyes toward the sky, composed himself again, and then slowly shook his head. “I am four-and-twenty, Miss Boyd, so I don’t presume to know anything. I only hope that in time, I can acquire as much worldly wisdom as your father.”

Clara’s expression transformed into something almost feline as she appraised him. “Oh? Well, that’s rather interesting…in Lottie’s letters, she said you were seven-and-twenty.”

_Oh, ballocks._

“I lied to her,” Ben quickly said. “As unscrupulous as it was, I wanted to impress your sister, so I…I _embellished_ my life’s story.”

Clara huffed, though her stance softened again. “She _does_ love older men,” she agreed, twirling her parasol. “Still, you needn’t _lie,_ Mr. Ashby. Mother is nearing the end of her prime, and even _she_ was willing to throw her legs over her head.”

Ben choked, barely able to return her gaze.

“What?” Clara jeered, playfully poking him in the ribs. “Am I not speaking like a _lady?”_

Ben chose not to respond. Up ahead, he could see a brick building with a well-kempt, proudly embellished wooden sign that read: _J. Boyd, Esq._ in fine cursive. Despite this being what he’d sought, Ben’s upper lip curled with disdain. Even the Boyds’ damn _signs_ were ostentatious.

“Well, here we are,” Clara announced, sounding bored. “Father won’t approve of my being here, but then, I don’t think he approves of my being _anywhere.”_ Looking up at Ben from beneath her hat, she pressed, “Are you _certain_ I can’t convince you to go someplace else? The park? A bookshop?”

“You can remain here, if you’d prefer,” Ben said, already heading up the steps.

He heard her huff, then she exclaimed, “I have already _told_ you: I am in need of a chaperone! Haven’t you heard about soldiers ravishing women in broad daylight?”

Ben halted at that, shaken. He admittedly _hadn’t_ heard the scandalous tales, and a sour, rankled sensation burned between his ribs like curdled milk. With his lips turning downward, he steeled his shoulders and grumbled, “Come along, then.” He could sense Clara’s triumph, but didn’t turn to look at her. As much as he found Clara Boyd to be a nuisance, he couldn’t very well live with the guilt, were she to turn up hurt…or worse.

Taking up the lead, Clara pushed ahead of him and led Ben into a foyer for hats and coats, then looped her fingers through his arm and tugged him toward the main office. “Father?” she called, her voice light and lilting. “Father, Mr. Ashby is here!”

“I am _busy,_ damn you!” came the irate reply. “Tell him to go to hell!”

Rolling her eyes, Clara muttered to Ben, “Don’t worry, he’s always like this. He’ll see us whether he likes it or not…he just tends to put on a show for the sake of his clients. _Everyone_ wants to be represented by a shark, you know.”

Stunned, Ben nodded wordlessly, then followed her in through a pair of double doors. Jedediah was speaking in hushed, conspiratorial whispers to another man, yet his head jerked up upon seeing his guests.

Ben was quick to doff his hat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Boyd,” he said. “I apologize for the ambush, but as a future member of this family, I-”

“He wants to learn about the business,” Clara cut in, laying her hand over Ben’s arm. “He’s still a bit _excitable,_ so you must forgive his ramblings.” Her gaze cut toward Jedediah’s client, who was heavyset, middle-aged, and unabashedly leering at her tight, neatly laced stays that pronounced her bosom. Trying not to make a face, she added, “I apologize for interrupting, Father. Might Mr. Ashby observe this transaction?”

Despite Jedediah’s brusque demeanor, something in his eyes seemed pleased by Ben’s initiative. With a jerky motion of his head, he agreed, “If he likes. Just be certain that _you_ aren’t present for this, Clara.”

“Why? Do you fear I’ll get unchristian ideas?” Regardless of her snide response, Clara _did_ feel a certain amount of debauchery in the room, given the client’s oily, snake-like demeanor. It made her shiver and press further into Ben’s side.

Setting down his quill, Jedediah grumbled to himself and irritably rose from his desk. “Money is _not_ for female consideration, so you needn’t concern yourself with this,” he told his daughter. “Philip, on the other hand, is undoubtedly going to assist me with the goings-on of my finances, so this is actually quite ideal. I’m glad you decided to stop by.” Gesturing to his client, he added, “Mr. Jacob Howe, this is Mr. Philip Ashby of Philadelphia.”

“A pleasure,” the sleazy man said, though he was leering at Clara.

“Perhaps I’ll step outside, after all,” she muttered. Looking to Ben, she added, “I shall be in the foyer. Godspeed, Philip.”

She pressed his arm, and he felt a slight dip in his stomach when she left and closed the doors.

* * *

By no surprise, the situation Ben was drawn into was a rather dull one. Mr. Jacob Howe, a local farrier, believed himself swindled out of some hard-earned money, and he was trying to get it returned. While Jedediah and his client went back-and-forth, Ben did his best to suppress a yawn. How was he going to get a good look at Jedediah’s belongings? At his _desk?_

“Philip?”

Ben jerked to attention, looking up with a tight smile. “Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Howe and I will be in the neighboring room finalizing the arrangements over some port,” Jedediah said. “While we are away, I would ask that you wait here – Mr. Howe’s situation is a bit _delicate,_ and the less ears, the better.”

 _Surely not…_ Was it truly going to be this easy?

Trying not to express his relief, Ben nodded and said, “But of course, Mr. Boyd. I understand the need for discretion completely.” He spared Jacob a slight bow. “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Howe.”

Jacob nodded back, but now that Clara wasn’t in the room, he was no longer sporting a big, toothy grin.

The two men grunted a parting farewell, and then the double doors closed behind them, leaving Ben completely on his own. He barely suppressed a smile.

After waiting a beat, he rushed over to Jedediah’s desk. Starting at the top, he ripped open each drawer, dug around through the presiding papers, and then made his way toward the bottom.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. “Come _on!”_

Jedediah was no fool, but surely he had left a paper trail _somewhere?_ His bedroom seemed like a place of vulnerability, so Ben was counting on his office being the more ideal setting.

After going through the entire desk, however, his heart sank and he gave a growl of frustration. “Dammit!” he hissed. Slamming his fist onto the desktop, he jerked in surprise when there came a rattle, then a loosened panel opened up on the left side of the desk.

_What the…?_

Elated by his discovery, Ben knelt down and pried open the panel the rest of the way. Deep inside, he found a multitude of letters and lists.

“I’ve got you now,” he whispered.

Sifting through each item, his pleasure slowly faded once he realized just what was _on_ these papers. Plans, military tactics… _all_ of these were what the Continental Army had spent weeks mapping out, and yet somehow, they had ended up _right here_ in Jedediah Boyd’s possession.

Swallowing, Ben tasted bile. Had Jedediah already given this information to the enemy? And more importantly, _how_ had he gotten these papers to begin with? Was there an insider working against them?

Hands beginning to tremble, Ben shoved the documents back into the compartment, then fumbled with the open panel, somehow managing to lock it into place just as he heard the sound of voices. Rocketing up to his feet, he smoothed out his waistcoat right when the double doors opened.

“Ah, don’t just stand there!” Jedediah crowed. “Come drink with us, my boy – Mr. Howe is officially going to get back what he’s owed!”

 _As are you,_ Ben furiously thought. Forcing a grin to his lips, he stepped forward and accepted the drink extended to him. “To Mr. Howe’s good fortune!” he exclaimed, raising his glass.

The two other men followed suit, then drank with gusto.

* * *

Clara was annoyed. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to get Mr. Ashby to betray himself. She had been so _sure_ that his age was proof of deceit, and yet the longer she spoke to him, the more she realized she was wrong. She _had_ to be wrong – if he truly _did_ want to steal from them, wouldn’t he have already robbed them by now?

Sighing through her nose, she held a book to her breast and rapped on Ben’s door. As proud as she was, she felt _guilty_ for her indiscretion, and decided to make it up to him in the only way she knew how. “Mr. Ashby?” She knocked harder. “Are you decent? I wish to speak with you, if I may.”

There came a long pause, then the sound of footsteps. The door swung open not long afterward, and Clara blinked when she realized he was patting down his face with a small, cotton cloth. Mid-afternoon sun streamed in through the curtained windows, soft and dream-like, and backlit Ben like some sort of Medieval painting.

 _A work of art, indeed,_ she thought, trying not to ogle him too closely. He was her sister’s _betrothed,_ for goodness sake… Even so, it certainly didn’t hurt to look, did it?

Though the longer she stared, the more she realized Ben had a small cut on his face. “You, um…” Awkwardly, Clara tapped her cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh…” Glancing down at his soiled cloth, Ben’s brow creased and he shrugged. “I suppose I shaved a bit too spiritedly. I seem to have…” _quite a lot on my mind._

Clara arched a brow. “You seem to have what?”

“Uhh, plenty of time at your disposal,” he finished, gesturing with impatience. “What can I do for you, Miss Boyd?”

Shrugging off the sharp edge to his tone, a hint of eagerness overcame Clara, and she grinned before extending the book in her hands. “For you,” she explained. “After our conversation last night, I felt compelled to search through the library.”

Bemused, Ben took the tome and flipped through the illustrated pages. _“The Expert Midwife?”_ he read, more befuddled than ever.

“By Jacob Reuff,” Clara acknowledged, nodding. “It has diagrams of women that showcase very specific organs – _sexual_ ones, as well. I thought this might help with your embarrassment over the female body.”

Abruptly, Ben snapped the book shut. “I am _not_ embarrassed.”

“Oh, no?” Slowly, a coy smile filled Clara’s face. “Well, that’s wonderful! In certain circles, those diagrams are considered erotic, so I do hope that regardless of your stance, you’ll take _some_ form of enjoyment from them.”

Ben swallowed, his throat bobbing sharply. “Was this all you needed?”

“I have many needs in life, but yes…I suppose this was all I needed from _you,”_ Clara teased, beaming. “I do hope you like it.”

“I…yes,” Ben stammered, though it was clear that he was uncomfortable. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she grinned before pointing at the book. “I’m rather partial to the illustration on page 32. Perhaps you’ll agree, should you find yourself curious about what a uterus looks like.”

“Uter…uh…?”

“Uterus,” Clara repeated, amused. “Surely you’ve heard of them? I’d like to think you’re not _that_ naïve.”

“Y-yes, but-”

“It’s rather funny though, isn’t it? How the word ‘us’ is in uterus? As if the man has _any_ part in it other than sticking his cock up a woman’s-”

“Miss Boyd, _please.”_ By now, Ben’s face was so red that it nearly matched the color of his fine, ornamented coat. Taking her by the shoulder, he started steering her back toward the stairs. “I have a busy day ahead of me, and I wish to retire.”

Clara scoffed. “Isn’t retiring the _opposite_ of a busy day?”

He exhaled, choosing not to take her bait. “I wish to be alone,” he clarified, “so we can speak again at suppertime, if it pleases you.”

“Oh, but of course! I imagine reading that in mixed company would be rather embarrassing,” Clara agreed, simpering. “I cannot _wait_ for you to tell me all about what you’ve learned!”

Ben halted with her at the head of the stairs, astounded. “Do you truly think I intend to discuss this over _supper?”_

She shrugged. “Well, why not? Men have free reign over the dinner table, so they get to dictate what we womenfolk discuss. And as much as Father may dislike it, the female body is _far_ more interesting than politics.” Her eyes took on a sly, coquettish slant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Ashby?”

Ben drew in a shuddery breath. “As I’ve said, I have a busy day ahead of me. Take care, Miss Boyd.”

He turned on his heel, and as Clara watched him retreat to his room, she lifted a hand to her mouth and hid her smile behind her fingers.

* * *

Miraculously, Ben survived supper without any incident. Clara behaved herself – a true miracle – and despite her flirtatious glances, he’d managed to avoid any further embarrassment. That, thankfully, had allowed him to focus on his mission. With the knowledge he’d discovered, he knew he needed to send word to Washington post-haste.

It was this urgency that brought him to the Blue Whale Tavern. Archibald Smith, his and Caleb’s shared contact, was a sixty-something-year-old man with thin white hair on top of his shiny, balding scalp. As Ben entered the building, he and the older man shared a glance before he promptly looked away. Even though Archibald didn’t yet know his face, it was always best to avoid coming on too strongly.

A bar wench came his way, so Ben fell into the ruse and ordered himself a blue ruin. Sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, he discreetly appraised the clientele while he waited for his drink. As was the usual case for evenings, there were several men present: three shady types playing whist (and cursing loudly), a pair of seamen _well_ into their cups, and quite a few loners who hadn’t come in with any friends at all. Lady Liquor was all the friend they needed.

“Here you are, then,” the barmaid purred, winking as she set the juniper-based liquor down in front of him. “Anything else?” She placed her hands onto her ample hips, and almost seemed to be _intentionally_ pushing up her breasts as she awaited his response.

Distracted, Ben offered a weak smile and shook his head. “No, thank you…but thank you.”

Disappointed, the woman shrugged her shoulders, muttered a terse, “Suit yourself,” and then walked off to check on the rowdy card players.

By now, the room no longer seemed to be paying him much attention, so Ben grabbed his stein and moved over to Archibald. Despite being the owner of the tavern, the old man often sat about drinking with the locals. Fortunately for Ben, this evening Archibald was sitting off to the side by himself, writing out his inventory with a quill.

“Good evening, Mr. Smith,” Ben greeted. Archibald grunted in response, far too engrossed in his task, so the former took it as an unspoken invitation to sit. Sinking down into the chair across from the tavern owner, Ben lowered his voice and said, “If Providence is kind, the winds will be easy for sailing tomorrow morning.”

Archibald froze. It was the secret message they’d all agreed upon, and with the pass code given, he licked his dry lips and responded, “Yessir, I have a shipment that needs taken care of myself.”

With the second part of the secret message given, Ben relaxed in his seat and smiled, raising his stein. “To unmolested shipments.”

Archibald barely lifted his own stein before knocking it back, his throat working as he quickly swallowed the liquor. He seemed nervous… Was this his first time dealing with actual intel?

Leaning in on his elbows, Ben said, “I have a letter for my lady-love. Will you see that it gets to the post-rider?”

“Certainly…for a fee.” Archibald held out his weathered hand, and Ben placed five shillings into his palm. Despite the transaction not being necessary, both were determined to play out their ruse as realistically as possible. “All right,” Archibald spoke again. “And the letter, sir?”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Ben withdrew the intel he’d acquired – a letter he’d written that was completely coded – before passing it across the table.

Archibald gave it a quick once-over, swallowed, and then stuffed the correspondence into his own pocket. “I’ll see that it gets to your lady-love come morning’s light,” he promised. “You enjoy that drink, sir.”

Ben smiled, relieved, before rising from the table and returning to his former seat, stein in hand. He planned to finish his drink to keep up appearances.

* * *

By the time Ben left the tavern, it was well into the late hours of the evening – a little before midnight, if he had to guess.

With his tricorne pulled down low and his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, he trudged along the wharf, intent on keeping a low profile despite there being very few occupants in the streets – no one beyond lowlifes and poor, desperate women looking to sell their wares. Despite the pang of pity he felt on their behalf, he didn’t dignify them with eye contact as they called out to him while he passed.

The walk to the Boyd’s mansion seemed longer at night, but he knew it wasn’t far. The surroundings were finally starting to look familiar again.

“Mister, can you spare a light?”

Ben halted in his tracks, not having anticipated being grabbed. He looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at the man whose face was eerily obscured by shadows. The moon was low in the sky, and yet he was afforded nothing but the slight shine of teeth through the dark…like a wolf.

Uneasy, Ben shook himself free and said, “My apologies, sir, but I do not smoke. I have no tinder box to lend.”

He actually _did_ have a tinder box – most resourceful men carried one – and yet something about this stranger set his fight or flight response into action. He moved to step around the man, but gave a jolt whenever the shadowed figure swung an arm around his neck and squeezed.

With a sharp gasp, Ben tried to drop down to his knees to knock himself loose, but was punished by the entrapment of a tighter hold. The two men grappled, scuffling dangerously close to the edge of the docks.

“I have no money,” Ben managed to wheeze. The man behind him laughed, and the stranger’s stale, pungent breath burned at his nostrils. While he was distracted, Ben slammed his fist back and nailed his assailant in the gut. The man released him with a startled _“oof!”_ and Ben spun around, fumbling through his pocket for a knife.

Unfortunately, the stranger beat him to the punch. Snatching his own weapon of choice, the man grabbed Ben by the shoulder and leaned in toward his ear, his breath hot and rancid as he hissed, “Send my regards to General Washington.”

Ben’s eyes widened, and then an explosion of pain seared across his abdomen. A sharp cry caught in his throat, and as the assailant yanked the knife free of his wound, Ben’s knees buckled, and he dizzily found himself being shoved off the pier.

It felt as though he were moving in slow motion. Disoriented and alit with agony, Ben harshly landed into the cold, icy waves below, the roar of seawater dousing his senses as he slowly sank down into the briny abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially caught up with all the chapters I've written, so I can no longer guarantee speedy updates. I'm amazed I was able to stay ahead for as long as I have, truth be told! Even so, the next chapter is one of my favorites (so far), because even though I'm not finished with it, having Clara tend to Ben is proving to be both comical (and a bit emotional). She's like, "Oh, no...I actually _care_ if this jerk dies? NOPENOPENOPE." lol
> 
> Anyway, I have no idea how readers feel about this story, but I hope it's brought you as much enjoyment as it has for me while writing! I didn't realize how badly I needed a Tory/Rebel romance until now, I guess, because I've never written this much in one month (or per chapter) in my life. Hopefully I can keep going soon!
> 
> 18th century slang featured:  
> sugar stick: dick


	5. On Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben grows paranoid about the mission's safety. He and Clara reach a changing point in their relationship.

When the front door opened, Clara didn’t bother lifting her head. She kept reading her copy of _The Odyssey,_ absently worrying her thumb over her lip until a sharp, distinctive thud drew her attention.

Alarmed, she raised her head and caught sight of Ben staggering into an end table, soaking wet and barely able to hold himself upright.

“Oh…Mr. Ashby!” she exclaimed. Tossing the book aside, she gathered up her skirts and came rushing toward him, her hands extending just as he slumped to his knees. She caught hold of his overcoat and drew down at his side. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “How on _earth_ did you get so wet?”

Gritting his teeth, Ben swore softly and lifted his hand. Clara peered down at the visible crimson stain and gasped.

“You’ve been injured!”

“You truly _are_ a woman of intelligence,” he muttered, grimacing from the effort of holding himself upright.

Frustrated, Clara resisted the urge to strike his arm. “Why are you making sport of this situation?” she demanded. “You are bleeding _all over_ Father’s parquet floor! Not to mention, the torrents of water!” When Ben spared her a withering glare, she chewed her lip and amended, “You’re right, that was unkind…the floor can be cleaned.” Touching his back, she pressed, “Can you stand?”

“I think so…” Wincing, Ben tried to rise again, and this time, Clara moved to duck underneath his arm, bearing his weight while the two struggled to stay upright. “Miss Boyd, you’re going to have to stitch my wound.”

 _“Me?”_ Wall-eyed, she scoffed and her face grew bone-white. “I barely excel at my own needlepoint!”

 _“Please,”_ Ben begged. “I cannot go to a physician.”

“And whyever not?” Frustrated, Clara spat, “No respectable man has a slapdash, ill-advised surgery, and of _that_ I can assure you!”

“I do not have the money,” he reminded her. “My coin purse was stolen, and-”

“Oh, for goodness sake, you ninny! _I_ will pay for the damned surgery!” Clara moved to call for a servant, but Ben quickly caught hold of her wrist, staggering along with her as she came to a halt.

“I am ashamed to admit as such, but I have an illogical fear of physicians,” Ben lied. “When I was a boy, my grandfather fell terribly ill, and passed under the care of a negligent doctor. Ever since, I have resigned myself to untraditional medical treatment.”

Clara blinked up at him, torn between laughter and disbelief. When she found no deception nor jocularity in his eyes, she pursed her mouth and huffed. “So you believe _I_ will do a better job? Philip, I have already told you: I _barely_ sew, and I don’t know the first thing about medical science!”

“But you read that book on midwifery,” he pointed out, wavering. “You know the human body well enough. Just put the needle and thread through my skin, and then tie a knot.” Impatient, he gestured to his sodden wound. “Would you prefer that we continue arguing, or shall I bleed out all over your father’s precious floor?”

Exhaling, Clara placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. She appeared a bit pale and sickly, but otherwise seemed won over. “Right,” she muttered. “So what do I need to do first?”

Gripping his midsection, Ben instructed, “Fetch us a needle, some thread, and a bottle of whiskey.”

Clara’s brow quirked. “What is the whiskey for?”

 _“Myself._ In case you’re an indelicate sort, I’d rather have liquid courage to fight off the pain.”

She snorted. “If I weren’t so anxious, I might actually be offended.” Muttering to herself, she moved back underneath his arm and cajoled, “Come along then…move your feet, one after the other. That’s it.”

Ben grudgingly leaned into her side, the pain both dizzying and sobering as they stumbled toward the stairs.

“You are _stepping_ on my _foot,”_ Clara groused.

In spite of his tremendous discomfort, Ben had to laugh. “I have been stabbed, yet your _foot_ is what’s in jeopardy here?”

There came a tense silence, then she snorted and helped him up onto the first stair. “If you keep poking fun at my sensibilities, you’ll soon find a lump on your _head,_ as well,” she grumbled. Looping her arm more securely around Ben’s waist, Clara became disgusted once she realized the side of her ornate, silk patterned gown was now streaked in scarlet and seawater. She hoped one of the servants would be able to remove the stains… She could often scare away Father’s questions by bringing up her womanhood, but she somehow doubted she could spin the lie when the blood was on her _bodice._

“Where is your family?” Ben asked, drawing back her attention.

With a shrug, Clara said, “Everyone is asleep. And as long as you quit with your jawing, they should _remain_ that way.”

Ben scoffed, leaning into her side as they staggered up step after step. “Far be it for me to disagree, Miss Boyd _,_ but I seem to only hear _your_ voice carrying above the great halls.”

She gasped. “Are you implying that I have a shrill, harpy-esque intonation?”

“I never imply anything,” Ben assured her. “Truth, no matter how painful, is the gospel I live by.”

“Indeed? Well, I _could_ just let you go and watch you topple backwards, you realize.”

Ben finally cracked a smile, though it appeared as more of a grimace. With his free hand pressed to his wound, he came to a stop at the head of the stairs and exhaled, catching his breath. “The supplies,” he reminded her. “Please fetch them.”

Pursing her mouth, Clara was clearly torn on what to do – allow herself to be bossed around by a boorish, ill-cultured swine, or _assist_ said boorish, ill-cultured swine with his task – before she sighed and slipped out from underneath his arm. “Very well,” she agreed. “Go to your room, Mr. Ashby. I will come by once I’ve gathered what you’ve asked.”

She started heading back downstairs, only to turn and glance up at him. “Please don’t die,” she added, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Before Ben could even think to respond, she’d already turned and went rushing down the remainder of the staircase.

* * *

By the time Clara returned with the necessary materials, Ben was shirtless and seated on his bed, pale and sweaty and clutching at his clotted wound. He also seemed to be wearing a pair of dry breeches, thank the Lord.

Tapping a hand over her mouth, Clara grew a little nauseous at the sight of so much blood, then rushed over to him with her small tray of supplies. “I collected whatever I could find,” she told him, trembling somewhat as she knelt down at his feet. Taking up the needle and thread, she gave a feeble laugh while quipping, “You know, when I’m _usually_ between a man’s legs, there is a far more pleasurable outcome.”

Ben blanched, but was too weakened to blush or laugh.

Holding up a hand, she amended, “I know, I know: you think I’m a trollop. Just let me ramble, won’t you? I’m bloody nervous!”

Finally, Ben’s pained grimace softened. “I don’t think you’re a trollop.”

Ignoring his eyes on her, an unexpected flood of warmth flowed through Clara’s limbs and pooled down into her stomach, much like a shot of whiskey. “Yes, well I’m afraid you’re the only one,” she murmured. Properly threading the needle, she exhaled, then gestured to his blood-stained hand. “Let go of your wound,” she instructed. “I can’t very well stitch you up if your hand’s in the way.”

“See?” Ben lowly quipped. “You’re a physician already.”

Clara snorted. “Ah, yes – how good of me to know basic common sense.” Glancing up at him again, she breathed in, breathed out, and then entreated, “Please try not to scream. I don’t know what in God’s name I’m doing, and I would _much_ prefer that you not startle me while I’m holding a sharp implement.”

Ben snorted. “Believe me, _I_ feel much the same way.”

They shared a look of slight amusement, though both were tinged with apprehension as Clara took up a cloth, dabbed it with the alcohol, and then wiped away at the bloodied laceration for a better view. Ben swore and gnashed his teeth.

 _Dear God,_ Clara thought. If he was behaving this way now, how would he react once she’d actually started _stitching?_

Trying not to focus too much on this thought, she exhaled again before pinching the wound shut with her fingers. “Try not to move,” she pleaded with him. “This is going to hurt.”

“Yes, I imagined as much,” Ben muttered. He’d been shot once before, but didn’t wish to alert her to this experience.

Chewing her lip, Clara attempted to stop the shaking in her hands – Lord above, why wouldn’t they _stop?!_ – before she finally gave up and swiped the bottle of liquor, pressing it to her lips and guzzling down a generous swallow. She coughed at the burning sensation, startled, before drawing a hand over her mouth. When she looked up at Ben again, a spike of annoyance blazed through her at the clear amusement in his eyes.

“What?” she spat. “You’re not the only one who needs liquid courage, you realize.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Ben promised. “If anything, I’m pretending my makeshift _physician_ isn’t getting all addle-pated.”

Drawing a breath, Clara shook out her hands, rolled her neck, and then muttered a terse, “I am _not_ addle-pated,” before sharply sticking the needle through Ben’s skin.

 _“Ouch!_ Jesus!” Red-faced – at least he had a bit of color to his complexion again – Ben scowled and gritted his teeth. Tensing his hands in his lap, he drew in several sharp, shallow breaths through his nose, then growled low in his throat when she started weaving the needle through his skin. In and out, in and out she worked, surprisingly determined for such a tempestuous heiress.

The shaking in her hands had subsided, and Clara ignored how blood – _his_ blood – oozed between the stitches like teardrops. Swallowing, she laced his wound and pushed out a slow breath. “There, now,” she soothed, “almost done.”

She forced the needle through a particularly stubborn section, and Ben swore again, tense and pounding his fist against his thigh.

“Sorry,” Clara whispered, wincing. While he swiped the bottle and took a long, hard pull of whiskey, she finally worked up the courage to ask, “How did it happen?”

Ben coughed a moment, clearing his throat. Lowering the bottle from his lips, he feigned ignorance as he asked, “How did _what_ happen?”

“Your _wound_ , you idiot!”

They locked eyes, he alarmed and she exasperated, before Ben finally replied, “I was attacked at a tavern.” Opting for a hint of the truth, he realized, would be his best bet.

Clara’s eyes flew wide. “A _tavern?_ What on earth were you doing in town?”

“Seeking to get stabbed,” he snidely said, only to amend, “I wanted a bloody drink, of course!”

“All right, all right! There’s no need for such nastiness! Hell, I would’ve thrown you into the ocean, too!” Scowling at him, she knotted his stitches and leaned back with a sigh. “It’s going to leave a terrible scar, I think.” Clara traced the line without touching it. “Men are lucky, though... Scars are a rite of passage, mapping out their masculinity. But for women? They’re just a blemish.”

_As is everything else in life._

Dispirited, Clara shook her head and rose from off the floor. Once she was upright, she nearly tottered back over, not having anticipated just how _drained_ and weak-kneed this ordeal had made her.

Quick to action, Ben reached out and thwarted her fall. His hands slid to her waist and held fast, their eyes locking as she dizzily caught hold of his shoulders.

“My apologies,” Clara whispered.

Ben promptly released her, behaving as though her very touch had burned him. Swallowing, he shifted on the bed and nodded to the cloth. “I believe I can take it from here, Miss Boyd. Thank you.”

Bemused, she took a step back and smoothed a hand over her gown, flustered as she caught sight of herself in the looking glass over his shoulder. Her eyes were wide and wild, and there were bloodied handprints on her bodice. She looked wretched – _claimed_ – and briefly, she wondered if this was how her family viewed her… How the _world_ viewed her. _Uncomely, unkempt, unclean._

Overcome, Clara tore her gaze away and moved over to the nightstand. “Don’t be silly,” she snapped at Ben. “You don’t want to pop those stitches, do you?”

With a frown, she lifted some strips of cloth, and then moved back over to sit alongside him. Despite her thigh pressing into his, she felt nothing other than determination as she wrapped the thin, frayed strips around his torso. After covering his wound, she tucked in the tail end and smoothed her fingers over the cloth, the furrow between her brows softening before she looked up at Ben again. “That should do it,” she murmured.

“I appreciate this…truly.” Ben thought of touching her wrist, but instead, he forced himself to keep his hands in his lap. Her sudden vulnerability had spoken to the part of him that desired to protect, to _save,_ and yet her closeness prompted him to jerk his leg away for more distance.

Instigated by his response, Clara rose and turned away from him. “I’d advise that you stay away from taverns, Philip,” she warned. “If you keep at it, there won’t be any places left for your assailants to stick a knife.”

Unable to help it, Ben’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Boyd. Thank you.”

“Clara,” she corrected. Catching his gaze, she flushed and amended, “We are familiars, and I am quite _literally_ witnessing you in an improper state of dress. I think we can lose the formality.”

Embarrassed, Ben moved to grab his soaked shirt. “I apologize for having ruined your father’s clothing,” he said. “Perhaps I can-”

“No,” Clara assured him, shaking her head, “don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like you could’ve anticipated a knife to the gut, though I _am_ curious as to what prompted the attack.”

“Well, you know me…” Ben offered a feeble smile. “I’m sure you could think of a few reasons.”

With a startled laugh, Clara grinned and folded her hands. “Indeed, I could! Just be grateful that I’ve never chosen to act on them myself.”

A moment of soft, surprisingly comfortable silence passed between them, and then she nodded before dropping down into a curtsy. “Goodnight, Philip. If you need anything…well…” She hesitated, then blurted, “You may come into my room. You, yourself said I’ve proven to be a decent physician, so I’d like to think I could assist.”

Holding his ruined shirt against his chest, Ben nodded once, overwhelmed by a strong mixture of blood loss, adrenaline, and the confounding woman who’d somehow, for _some inexplicable reason_ chosen to help him. He didn’t like that he felt _warmed_ by the realization.

“Goodnight, Clara,” he softly said. “Sleep well.”

Despite it being a dismissal, the redhead smiled and felt a deep, sunny bloom within her breast. “You, as well,” she murmured. “Please be alive for breakfast tomorrow.”

He gave a slight bow of his head, and then she turned and rushed out into the hallway. Had she stayed a moment more, she was concerned with what she might have done…

* * *

Ben barely slept that night. In between the aching throb of his wound, he was plagued with nightmares of his assailant – of how he’d spoken Washington’s name. Who was that man? Did he know Ben? And more importantly, was his cover officially blown?

Panicking over the thought, he decided to resist coming downstairs for breakfast that morning, but William came to his door at the properly scheduled time to help him dress. This time, he actually accepted the aid.

While the servant assisted him in putting on his shirt, he and William shared a leery look, but the latter fortunately didn’t ask questions about the bandages.

Once Ben was fully dressed, he followed William down into the dining room and was surprised to find Jedediah at the foot of the table. Thus far, he hadn’t made many appearances for mealtime, and it was just Ben’s luck that the patriarch had to be there when he was feeling…well… _out of sorts,_ to put it lightly.

“Can you _believe_ this?” Jedediah thundered. Irritable, he flicked his newspaper and shook his head. “Someone went to the Blue Whale last night and _murdered_ poor old Archibald Smith!”

The women in the room all gasped, and when Clara glanced over at Ben, she was startled to find him so ashen and troubled. Had he met Mr. Smith?

“What a pity,” Laura said, drawing a hand to her chest. “He was from such a lovely Tory family, too…it must have been Rebel scum who did this.”

Ben tightened his fists, then clumsily took his seat alongside Clara. His wound screamed in protest from the graceless motion, and he exhaled, trying to minimize the pain on his face. “It’s a true tragedy,” he crisply agreed. “I hope the man who did this suffers.”

“Hear, hear!” Jedediah exclaimed. “The sooner those Patriot bastards are off the streets, the better.”

Ben swallowed, but said nothing. He glanced over at Clara, who was eyeing him strangely. Did she suspect? Did she think _he_ might have killed Archibald Smith?

Paling at the thought, he offered her a feeble smile and nod, to which she frowned and turned to her eggs.

 _Oh, bloody hell._ Whatever her thoughts on the matter, she certainly didn’t seem willing to engage in conversation…

“How did it happen?” Ben asked. Spreading his napkin across his lap, he looked to Jedediah with what he hoped to be concerned expectance. “The man…Mr. Smith, was it? How was he killed?”

Jedediah’s mouth twisted, and he shook his head, getting worked up anew as he re-adjusted his spectacles. “The poor soul was _stabbed,”_ he said. “The tavern must have been empty, because I cannot imagine anyone just _letting_ such a well-loved man get attacked _right_ in front of their noses.”

“With all due respect, Father, I believe Mr. Smith was only beloved by drunks,” Clara said. Her gaze pointedly cut toward Laura, and then she looked back to Jedediah again. “As tragic as this is, it was probably some drunken dispute. Truth be told, I’m amazed he wasn’t killed sooner.”

Catherine whispered a prayer under her breath, pale and trembling. “Please do not speak as such,” she begged. “Even if Mr. Smith was a drunk, he deserves our respect.”

“Precisely!” Jedediah agreed. “I shall have to send his family my regards.”

Clara snorted, her face an open mask of disdain. “If Mr. Smith were not a Tory, you wouldn’t give two _whits_ about his life,” she snapped. “Far be it for me to support Rebel trash, but I _also_ don’t believe in remaining silent when utter _tripe_ is being tossed my way.” Jedediah moved to speak, but she continued, “You have successfully divvied the town into ‘Traitors’ and ‘Loyalists,’ and I can assure you, Father, there are _plenty_ of scoundrels in the Loyalist category. A man’s politics do _not_ mean he has good moral standing.”

Jedediah’s face grew red. “Ridiculous!” he spat.

“I agree,” Clara fired back, “it _is_ ridiculous. Why, this entire _war_ is ridiculous, and I hate hearing about our neighbors, our former _friends_ ending up dead over something so repulsive! We were so close with the Claytons, and now we never speak – and for what? Just because they wish to be free of-?”

“Enough!” Jedediah thundered, smashing his fist against the table. Catherine and Laura both jerked, but Clara remained impassive amidst his rage.

Ben looked between both parties, equally fascinated and horrified. He wouldn’t call Clara a _sympathetic_ Tory, by any means, but he also hadn’t expected her to _understand_ the damage the war had caused. Neighbors, friends and family were torn at the seams, and sometimes under the very same roof. This abode was clearly a prime example of that.

Despite his own personal misgivings, Ben knew he needed to show his appreciation for the Tory cause. Clearing his throat, he spoke up, “Your father is right, Miss Boyd. Although there is never an accurate gauge for loyalty, it will always be wisest to side with the Tories. At least in this way, we can guarantee your safety.”

Jedediah was still red-faced, but he softened at Ben’s interjection. “An astute observation,” he allowed, stabbing his fork into his eggs. “You would do well to take his advice, Clara. No Rebel would spare you – why, they’d _leap_ at the opportunity to ravish and plunder, should you cross their path.”

Clara paled somewhat, but her chin remained pointed and tense. “You are forgetting that _men,_ as a species, are fully capable of that regardless,” she said. “The male sex don’t need to be _Rebels_ in order to accost me. I can assure you, Father, that uncouth Jacob Howe was more than willing, and _he_ is as loyal to the Crown as you and I.”

Jedediah’s eyes alit with anger, but it was clear by the hard set of his jaw that he knew she was right.

“I have written a letter,” Ben cut in, hoping to defuse the situation. “Once it reaches Philadelphia, my employees will be sending down a couple ships for the cause. I apologize for lacking the foresight to do this prior.”

As Ben had hoped, Jedediah’s contempt turned into something more blissful and eager.

“Truly?” he crowed. “Why, that’s marvelous news, indeed! I wasn’t so certain you would uphold that vow, if I am being honest, but it’s good to know you Ashbys are every bit as loyal as you claim.”

Clara turned to look at Ben, her eyes narrowing quizzically. “Come to think of it, why didn’t you just _arrive_ on one of your ships?” she asked. “That way, you could have spared yourself the horrors of highwaymen.”

“W-well…” Waving a hand, Ben deflected, “My parents taught me that modesty is the key to business, and I did not wish to embarrass you, nor your family with my riches. It would be rather uncouth, if I do say so myself, especially since Charlotte is the only treasure I require.”

Clara laughed, the sound musical despite her clear scorn. “Lord above, Philip, you truly _are_ a card! A _treasure?_ Please!”

“I think it’s lovely,” Laura spoke up, her face melding into the flirtatious, dream-like simper she’d developed for Ben. “Why, Mr. Ashby, I didn’t realize that in addition to being a well-read, successful business owner, you were also a _poet.”_

This time, Clara could scarcely contain herself. She howled with laughter, holding herself around the middle as tears filled her eyes. Discreetly, Catherine took away her sister’s cider, believing that the alcohol was the cause of her mirth.

“Oh, the whole world’s gone mad,” Clara declared, gleeful. “Isn’t it just…just _marvelous_ how we truly _are_ all players in this stage production of sheer _twaddle?”_

“Clara, that’s enough,” Laura admonished. “If you are unable to comport yourself, you may be excused.”

Clara giggled, wiping her eyes with a finger. _“Gladly,”_ she agreed. Rising from the table, she spared Ben one last disbelieving look before bursting into renewed laughter, rolling her eyes as she turned and left the dining room.

* * *

Despite Clara’s mirth at breakfast, when Ben found her alone later that afternoon, she was nowhere near as pleasant to be around. In fact, whenever he offered her a tentative smile, she snorted and pointedly returned to reading.

Ah. So it was to be one of _those_ conversations then.

Truth be told, Ben was rather anxious ever since their earlier exchange, and genuinely feared that she suspected him. That might have aided in her “you can’t know a man’s principles by his politics” tirade, given how he, himself, was very much cloaked in deception. But she couldn’t know that…

 _Could_ she?

Clearing his throat, Ben moved to stand alongside Clara and peered down at her, clasping his hands behind his back and offering another smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Boyd,” he greeted. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Clara didn’t look up from her book, her mouth pinched and her expression sharp.

_Dammit._

“I read a bit of _The Expert Midwife_ yesterday,” he announced, hoping to win her good graces. “You were right…I _am_ rather uptight when it comes to the human body, and that text did me a world of good.”

This time, Clara sighed, rolling her eyes as she flipped the page.

“Er…I thank you,” he continued, sitting down alongside her. “If it weren’t for your insight, I daresay that-”

“You were at the tavern,” she accused, her tone crisp. “Did you witness Mr. Smith’s murder?”

Ben swallowed back his feeble attempts at conversation, overcome by a lurching wave of panic. “I-I did not,” he finally allowed. “He must have been attacked after I was…or before. I cannot be certain.”

“And are you certain _you_ didn’t attack him?” Clara asked, finally lifting her gaze to nail him in place. “Because it seems rather _convenient_ that you, yourself were injured, and yet managed to get away with your life.”

 _And there it was._ Ben hadn’t been sure of her assumptions earlier that morning, but now as he returned her sharp, unwavering gaze, he suddenly found himself imbued with renewed confidence. He could easily spin this.

“I was attacked by a complete stranger,” he assured her. “And to be frank, I _barely_ escaped the situation alive…he threw me off a pier, and I nearly drowned.” Against his better judgment, Ben reached down and took her hand. “Miss Boyd, I hope you believe me when I say that I would _never_ lie to you. Your family has shown me kindness and love, and I wish to give nothing but kindness and love in return.”

Clara hesitated, a clear war raging behind her eyes as she processed his words. Finally, her stiff posture softened, and she extricated her hand before returning it to her lap. “I apologize,” she whispered. “It’s just…there have been so many _peculiarities_ as of late, and I am beginning to feel I cannot trust anyone. And your attack…it’s still so _strange_ to me.” Chin lifting, she persisted, “As much as we joked about it, there really _is_ no good reason for someone to accost you.”

Ben nodded. “He wanted my money…once he realized I only had a few shillings, he stabbed me in the stomach, and then shoved me into the ocean. Fortunately, he didn’t stay behind to see if he’d finished the job.”

“Oh, Philip…” A swell of emotion formed in Clara’s throat, and she drew a hand to her breast. “I am _so_ sorry. I feel _dreadful_ for assuming the worst about you, especially since you’ve been…y-you…” Not quite able to compliment him, she chewed her lip and amended, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

Relief washed over Ben. So much so, in fact, that he couldn’t help but jest, “Indeed? Would you have lost your primary form of amusement, had I died?”

In spite of herself, Clara laughed. “You know, I rather think I preferred you _before_ you started expressing your true personality.” To Ben’s surprise, she lifted a hand and touched his cheek, her thumb worrying over the spot he’d cut himself while shaving. “Please try and be more careful. As pleased as I am with my stitchwork, I don’t _actually_ wish to be your full-time physician.”

Catching her hand in his, Ben offered a smile and pressed a kiss to her palm. It had been a perfunctory, easy gesture, and he hated the slight dip in his stomach whenever they locked eyes. “I thank you most humbly,” he murmured. “Despite the pain you caused, I only needed the whiskey once.”

Clara flinched, not having expected such bold-faced affection – _if_ it could be considered as such. Slowly, an uncharacteristic blush flooded her cheeks, and she resisted the urge to touch him again…to cup his face and turn those serene, sky-blue eyes to hers; to meet with his gaze before she’d curl her fingers through his hair and-

“What are you reading?”

Flustered, Clara withdrew and busied herself with straightening her gown, no longer able to look him in the eye. “I’m still reading _The Odyssey,”_ she said. “You interrupted the tale last night, and naturally, I was in no mood to read afterward.”

“I apologize,” Ben wryly said. “From the sound of things, I am ruining quite a bit.”

“Yes,” Clara agreed, sparing him a meaningful glance, “you most certainly are.” _My sensibilities being at the top of that list._ Breathing out through her nose, she added, “How is your wound? You seem to be getting about well enough.”

“Thanks to you,” Ben agreed, nodding. “In fact, I’d say I feel better than _before_ I was stabbed.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” She laughed in spite of herself, lifting a hand to hide her smile. “Are you implying that medicine is my calling?”

“You have a bit of a poor bedside manner,” Ben quipped, “but I’ve certainly had worse…even though that ‘worse’ was a literal dog.”

Clara bit back another laugh, both delighted and perplexed. “Now _that_ sounds like a story worth hearing.”

“Perhaps someday,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, I am a far better shipbuilder than storyteller.” Rising from the settee, he announced, “I really must be off. I promised your father I would oversee another client today. Apparently, he now believes me to be a good luck charm.”

Clara ignored her brief stab of disappointment. “Poor you,” she teased, smiling. “I wouldn’t wish that title on anyone.” Lowering her eyes, she added, “I apologize for my behavior today, Philip. I was unnerved – scared for my _family_ – and it was wrong of me to blame you when you, yourself were injured.”

Ben hesitated, his gaze softening. “You weren’t wrong to blame me,” he said. “We have only just met, so your hesitance was merited. Truth be told, I’m rather impressed by your initiative. You would make an excellent spy for the Tories.”

“A _spy?”_ Clara wrinkled her nose, amused. “I may be somewhat of a blackguard in certain circles, but I’d like to think I’m not _that_ far gone.”

Ben’s smile turned melancholy. “No,” he agreed, “no, I imagine not. Good day to you, Clara.”

He bowed to her, then left before either could say words they couldn’t take back.

* * *

Despite Jedediah’s clear appreciation of Ben, the latter spent his day completely on guard, leery of everyone who crossed his path. That man, that _stranger_ who’d accosted him was still out there, and possibly knew he was living with the Boyds. And if he did, did that mean _others_ knew too?

Exhaling, Ben stood in the middle of his room, shirtless and unfastening his hair from its ribbon. His wound was still a little sore, but seemed otherwise on the mend. After shaking his hair loose, he turned his attention to his breeches and unfastened the fall flap, a grimace tearing across his face once his injury finally pulsed in protest.

Swearing under his breath, Ben steeled himself a moment, then stepped out of his breeches with a pained wince. He didn’t bother with his stockings. Bending over, however slight, didn’t seem the _least_ bit welcome in that moment, so instead, he stepped out of his shoes and lowered himself into bed. He would sleep. No matter how terrified he felt, Ben knew he _needed_ rest – not only for his injury, but for his mental state. He was of no use to the cause unrefreshed.

And what’s more important, Ben knew he needed to get word to Caleb. With their contact dead, it was likely that his coded letter had never been sent. Worse yet, it was probably in enemy hands…

Dragging a hand over his face, Ben exhaled and attempted to settle down into his bedding. It was destined to be a long night.

* * *

Unfortunately, Ben wasn’t the only person who found themselves ill at ease that evening. Clara paced back and forth in her bedroom, clasping her hands over her mouth as though in prayer.

What was _wrong_ with her? Why had she suddenly decided that she _liked_ the vile, arrogant man her sister had chosen to marry?

Her sister…

A sharp, painful slice of guilt twisted through her heart, and Clara exhaled, spinning about and facing her reflection. It wasn’t as though she _loved_ or _desired_ Philip… Well, she wouldn’t be averse to physical entanglements, of course, but the strange fact was she actually found herself _interested_ in what he had to say. Clara wasn’t used to that. She didn’t _like_ feeling so open and vulnerable around a man… _exposed._ In past experience, it was always _she_ who had the upper-hand, so now that the roles were reversed, she felt entirely out of her depth. Was this what it was like to enjoy a man’s companionship, and _without_ the sole desire for intimacy? 

Groaning, Clara raked a hand through her long, auburn curls and once more glanced at her reflection. She appeared lost… _tragic,_ and despite the leap of shame in her chest, she decided that she needed to check on Philip. He hadn’t changed his bandages, to her knowledge, so she would come by his room and see if he needed help.

_That was all._

Attempting to calm her nerves, Clara slipped into her dressing gown, then prepared a candle to take with her into the hallway.

* * *

The Boyds were heavy sleepers, so Clara was able to fetch fresh bandages and whiskey without alerting even a mouse to her actions. She stepped lightly through the upstairs corridor, her heart in her throat as she drew closer to Philip’s room at the end of the hallway.

The lit sconces on the walls directed her path, though she kept her own candle on her tray as she moved. The additional light was a comfort. Illumination often forced one to see everything, even things they might not necessarily _wish_ to see… And in that moment, Clara felt a buoyancy in her chest at the thought of _Philip_ seeing _her_ – the deepest parts of her that no man had ever been privy to.

Upon reaching his door, Clara hesitated a long while. All she could hear in the silence was the banging of her heart between her ribs, and the shallow, roaring rush of her breath in her lungs. What if he turned her away?

And worse yet, _what if he didn’t?_

Clara took a deep breath, steeled herself, and then raised her hand to rap on the oak frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, NOW I'm genuinely caught up, haha. I'd had most of CH 5 written when I said I couldn't guarantee speedy updates, and for CH 6, I only have a smutty bit jotted down...so now I actually mean it. lol Even though there's a smutty scene in the next chapter, I still consider this slow-burn since they don't kiss/have genuine romance in the act. Ahem. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! :)


	6. Muddied Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sexual content warning.** Ben and Clara's relationship turns physical. Caleb stops by with a new plan.

The knock that cut across the room caused Ben to jolt awake, panic seizing him by the throat as he glanced around him in disorientation. “H-hello?” he croaked.

There came a pause, then he heard a soft, “It’s Clara, Philip. Might I come in?”

_Clara?_

Squinting through the dark, he sniffed and blinked the sleep from his eyes, only to suddenly remember a very important fact: he was completely naked. If she came in, there would be _far_ worse to deal with than her exasperating quips.

Gripping at his quilt, he hissed, “Go away! It’s too late for a visit.”

There came a pause, then the door clicked open. A faint spill of candlelight bloomed within the doorway, and Clara poked her head around the corner. “What was that?”

Ben lurched up in bed, shocked and spluttering. “I…I-I told you to _leave,”_ he snapped, scandalized. “Miss Boyd, this is-”

“Clara,” she corrected.

Train of thought derailed, he groaned and rolled a hand down over his face. _“Whatever_ address you prefer, this is _not_ appropriate. If your father were to hear…”

“He won’t,” she assured him, her tone soft as she shut the door. “My parents sleep like the dead, and they _hardly_ concern themselves with the goings-on of my life. Not unless it serves as an embarrassment to them, of course.”

Her tone had been a little saddened – a rare moment of vulnerability on her part – and Ben hesitated at that, shaken. Was she not as indifferent as he had always believed?

Swallowing, he amended, “Be that as it may, I am engaged to be married to your sister. You shouldn’t be here.”

A look of guilt flashed across Clara’s eyes, and gripping at the small tray between her hands, she softly agreed, “I know this, yes… And I apologize greatly for my offense. But I cannot sleep, and _you_ are still awake, so I just thought…p-perhaps you needed your bandages changed?”

Ben balked. He wasn’t sure how he could safely explain to her that he was _indecent_ underneath his quilt, least especially when her eyes were so soft and pleading, and she was… _God,_ she was coming right toward him.

He held up a hand, hoping to ward her off, but Clara ignored the feeble rebuff and set her tray onto his nightstand.

“Have you had any discomfort?” she asked.

Feeling an edge of sarcasm in his mien, Ben asked, “What, you mean from being _stabbed?_ Yes, I’d say a fair amount.”

She spared him a withering look, then picked up several crisp, clean linen strips and nodded to him with purpose. “Show me your wound.”

“W-what?”

Exasperated, Clara rolled her eyes. _“Show_ me your wound, Philip. I need to see if it’s infected. If it _is,_ I am afraid I’m going to have to call for a physician.”

Hesitant, Ben cleared his throat, then slowly rolled up into a sitting position, careful to keep his quilt up to his chin.

Clara noticed and laughed. “Why are you being so modest?” she demanded. “I’ve _already_ seen you without a shirt – congratulations, by the way – so what could you possibly have to be so shy about?”

He scowled at her, then slowly lowered the quilt down to just beneath his wound. As long as she didn’t pull away the bedding, he knew he would be safe.

Annoyed with his taciturn behavior, Clara sat down on the edge of the mattress and reached for his bandages. “I know all men are babies, but you are being _quite_ difficult,” she complained. Despite her sharp tone, she was very careful with him as she unrolled his wrappings. Ben winced once or twice, but otherwise remained silent as the cloth fell away from his skin.

After the final strip was removed, Clara observed her stitchwork within the candlelight and frowned. “It…doesn’t _appear_ to be infected,” she said after a moment. “There’s a little bit of pink, but from what I’ve gathered, that’s relatively natural for the first day or so. Has it been hot to the touch?”

Ben shook his head, regarding her in amazement. “I thought you claimed you knew very little of medical science.”

“Well, it’s as you said,” Clara murmured. “I read…and perhaps a bit too much.” Rolling her eyes, she started winding the fresh bandages around his torso. “Or at least, I read ‘too much’ according to menfolk. You’re the first one to seem _impressed_ by my initiative. Don’t you believe a woman’s place is to lie down and spread her legs?”

Ben winced at the implication, then shook his head. “No, of course not…education is important. When I speak to the opposite sex, I prefer stimulation.”

She smirked. “You mean, stimulation from _more_ than just your gingambobs?”

“Yes.” He offered a soft smile. _“Much_ more.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Clara agreed. Regarding him with a sly smile, she observed, “For once, you didn’t blush… I suppose that means you’re growing accustomed to my ways.”

“Whether I wish it or not,” Ben acknowledged, chuckling. She tied a knot at the tail end of his bandages, and he laid a hand over her wrist. “You don’t have to keep helping me, you know. I was wrong to involve you.”

Pulling herself free of his grasp, Clara lifted her shoulders, feigning indifference. “Yes, well I _am_ involved now, so that’s a rather moot point, don’t you think?” Finally, her lips quirked into a coy smile. “I rather like it. It’s _exciting_ to be involved in something my parents wouldn’t approve.”

“With all due respect, isn’t that _everything_ you do?”

“There’s no need for impudence!” Laughing, the sound was light and warm as she fixed him with another grin. It was dazzling within the candlelight, and Ben shrank back, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to touch her – to _capture_ that radiant flame.

Sighing, she tapped his knee. “Well, I suppose I should be off then. Are you in need of anything else?”

Ben quickly shook his head, afraid to speak, lest he voice his thoughts aloud.

“Very well.” Glancing down at the discarded bandages, she added, “I suppose I’ll take those with me then…unless you’d prefer to keep them as a token of remembrance?” Despite the sneer in her tone, her eyes were soft as she stooped to fetch them.

Alarmed by her sudden closeness, Ben reclined farther and twisted away, attempting to remain still as she leaned across him toward the other side of the bed. Her fingers grasped the bandages, and when she pressed her other hand down for purchase against the quilt, her palm skimmed over bare flesh and they both froze.

Clara remained unmoving over top of him, awkwardly positioned as she tried not to look down. As a woman who’d long since lost her virtue, she was _not_ naïve when it came to the male sex. She had pulled down his quilt to an indecent degree, and he was…well… _equally_ indecent, judging by the slight hardness nudging into her palm.

She hadn’t realized Ben had been naked this entire time. In truth, she wasn’t sure _what_ she’d been expecting from his odd behavior, but as he trembled and looked to her through dusky, half-lidded eyes, she felt a sharp, undeniable pull between their bodies. He seemed so unnerved, so _vulnerable,_ and despite the fact Clara wished to tease him, all she could do was brush her fingers through the loose hair in his eyes. Ben winced, startled by the sudden contact. It emboldened her to trace over the strong curve of his jaw, his chin, and then the soft, sensual slope of his mouth.

Ben caught her wrist and Clara gasped. A tightness formed in her chest, and then his hand was suddenly over top of hers, halting the path of her fingers. They remained pressed over his lips, firm and gentle as their eyes locked.

“Philip…” The pressure in Clara’s breast increased, and then she buried her face into his throat, her body shivering as she wrapped him up in her arms.

Ben froze at her sudden closeness. Her long, auburn curls brushed over his shoulders and chest, and despite the slice of apprehension in his heart, he found himself traitorously leaning into her touch. He nudged his cheek against her crown and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of her embrace. He hadn’t been held – _truly_ held – in so long… Night after sleepless night had become ordinary for Ben, so now that he was being reminded of what it was like to be comforted, to be _loved,_ something inside his chest fractured and he curled into Clara’s arms, seeking more of that tenderness – that missing piece he hadn’t realized was truly missing.

Brushing his lips over her hair, Ben moved to speak, but Clara suddenly threw away all decorum and pulled back his quilt.

“W-wait,” he choked, but she’d already swung a leg over his hips and straddled him.

They locked eyes then, and undeterred, Clara reached between them and smoothed her fingers over his hot, velveteen skin. Ben made a strangled sound, and when she lifted her head again, she found him adorably flushed, his eyelids fluttering as she curled a hand around his cock.

Somehow, this was different than her typical entanglements. While pleasing men made Clara feel needed, _powerful,_ there was a tragic yearning in Ben’s eyes that touched her heart. Slowly, she smoothed her hand up and down his length, testing the feel of him while gauging his body for a reaction. Men were all more or less the same – it wasn’t _that_ difficult to discern – but for whatever reason, she wanted Ben to feel as much as _she_ was feeling.

Unbidden, Ben’s posture tensed and his mouth went slack. His chest heaved, fitful, and his eyes screwed shut when her pace between his legs began to increase. Clutching at the sheets between his fingers, he started to helplessly buck his hips, wanting – no, _needing_ more of that sweet pressure.

Sinking back onto his elbows, Ben gasped before sagging completely into the bedding.

That was when Clara stopped.

“You don’t have to touch me,” she promised, her heart pounding as she slowly lifted her shift above her thighs. “You’ll be completely innocent in this, Philip…I swear it.”

Ben swallowed, his hands falling to her waist as she ensured there was no longer any cloth between their bodies. Clara entwined their fingers, and then she nudged her hips down into his hardness, causing a sharp cry to catch in his throat.

“Shh,” she soothed. Careful in her movements, she settled herself over the swollen bar of him, then rubbed against his length in several forceful, rhythmic motions. Ben’s head dropped back and he panted, barely able to breathe as his cock throbbed and ached from her every ministration. He tried to touch her again, but Clara stopped him, taking hold of his wrists and forcibly pinning them at his sides.

This brought them even closer together and Ben drew a breath, trembling as he was suddenly gazing directly into her bright, stormy eyes. Her lips parted and then she moaned, sending a jolt straight through him as she tilted her hips for better stimulation. He felt her sensitive bud graze along the rigid rail of him, and he clenched his teeth, overwhelmed each time she soaked him anew with her incessant grinding.

“M-Miss Boyd,” he choked out, causing Clara to laugh softly.

“I am quite literally grinding on your cock, and yet you call me _Miss Boyd?”_ she teased.

Far too flustered to reply, Ben shivered and shook, and he watched Clara reach between her legs to spiritedly rub over her bud, her movements fast and aggressive. Her head tossed back and she gasped, rocking into his hips with renewed vigor. She looked wild, _beautiful,_ and yet again, Ben resisted the urge to touch her, his breath catching once he felt a brief spasm between her thighs.

Clara mewled softly, and then she was rubbing herself off on him with sheer desperation, her fingers tweaking her nub and her chin rolling toward her chest as her breasts heaved beneath her thin, cotton shift.

There was an unfamiliar, tight flexing sensation against his cock, and then Clara soaked him with her release, her body pitching forward so that she caught herself on her palms. She breathed shallowly, and Ben panted along with her, his length straining as she drew up again with trembly, unsteady movements.

When Clara peered down at him, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, she appraised Ben’s equally flushed face and chest shivering with breath, and decided she would assist.

“Don’t worry, Philip,” she whispered, curling a hand around him, “I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Ben flinched at the direct contact from where he needed to be touched – where he needed _her_ – and his eyes closed and his jaw clenched once she started stroking him, fast and hard and rough.

_Oh, God._

Clara’s wetness aided in her quick movements, and she gazed down at him in fascination, thrilled by the way his face was an open mask of aroused anguish. Each time she jerked his cock between her thighs, his shoulders tensed and he grunted, his lashes fluttering closed and his body tensing.

It was wholly pleasing, _exciting_ to see him in this way. “Let me make you feel good – as good as _I_ now feel,” she whispered, firmly increasing her speed. Between her fingers, Clara could feel an additional wetness, and she realized with satisfaction that his cock was leaking with pre-cum.

Leaning her weight forward, she used this angle for additional leverage and pumped Ben with renewed vigor. His mouth dropped open and he groaned in such a deep, needy way that Clara knew he was nearly finished. Desperate to see him cum, to _feel_ him unravel in her palm, she used both hands to push and stroke him from either direction.

At long last Ben cried out, lifting in a frantic arch against the bedding, and quickly, Clara clapped a hand over his mouth, silencing his long, deep groans beneath her palm. His gaze smoldered as they locked eyes, and unbidden, a sharp pang of arousal swelled between her legs. “Oh, Philip,” she whispered. What had he done to her? Or more importantly, what had they done to each _other?_

All at once, the guilt over what had transpired came crashing down around her shoulders. _Charlotte…_ How could she have done this to her own sister? How could _he_ have done this to his fiancée?

Swallowing back her nausea, Clara ignored the splatter of cum across her thighs and shift and palms, and promptly rolled off of him, jerking slightly whenever his hand came around her wrist.

“Clara, wait,” Ben whispered. When she looked back at him, his eyes were a deep, sweltering blue, much like a bonfire at midnight, and she trembled when he sat up to better appraise her.

“Philip, I must go,” she told him, yet her tone quavered and lacked conviction.

Gently running his thumb along her wrist, Ben used his other hand to cup her face, forcing their eyes to meet as he stroked the slope of her chin with a fond, careful brush of his fingertips. He was full of yearning, _softness,_ and yet whenever he leaned forward to brush his lips over hers, Clara promptly yanked herself loose before tumbling out of bed, refusing him eye contact.

“Goodnight, Philip,” she coolly said.

Ben gaped up at her, stunned. “Clara, if I have offended you-”

“You were wrong,” she cut in, her body visibly trembling. “I really _am_ a trollop.” A soft sob caught in her throat, and then she ripped open his bedroom door and rushed out into the hallway.

* * *

It was a long, sleepless night, and whenever Clara staggered into the conservatory the next morning, her eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying. Catherine immediately took notice and stilled her hands, closing the pianoforte lid in a rush.

“Oh, Clara, what’s happened?” she demanded. Rising from the bench, she moved over and took her sister’s hands. “Are you unwell? Did you…d-did you make any further discoveries about Mr. Ashby?”

Clara’s upper lip curled at his name, and she huffed before furiously rolling her eyes. “I most certainly did,” she snapped. “The man is a…a _fiend.”_

“How?” Concerned, Catherine appraised the redhead’s face. “What did he do?”

“A think a more apt question is, what _didn’t_ he do?” Appearing wounded, Clara lowered her eyes and exhaled. “Something happened between us last night…something that makes me question his loyalty to Charlotte.”

Catherine gasped. “Clara Boyd! Do you mean to tell me-?”

“Oh, so you think this is all _my_ fault, do you?” Bottom lip quivering, she agreed, “I suppose you’re not wrong…it _was_ my fault, but Philip didn’t exactly _stop_ me from…f-from…” Trailing off, she swallowed. “Nothing happened, if you are truly concerned. Nothing beyond some… _minor_ improprieties.”

“And what does that mean?” Catherine asked, frowning.

Clara snorted. “Do I truly have to spell it out for you? You may be a virgin, but I’d like to think you know about _some_ basic intimacy.”

Catherine flushed, scandalized. “You partook in _basic intimacy_ with our sister’s betrothed?”

“Yes!” Jerking at the sound of her own voice, Clara winced and amended more softly, _“Yes,_ Catherine, that is _precisely_ what I am saying. He didn’t kiss me – though not for a lack of trying – and he…uh…” She sighed. “I _touched_ him, and he didn’t pull away.”

Catherine’s expression grew withering. “So this was your plan all along, was it? To make me believe he was a scoundrel, and then prove it through…th-through _debauchery?”_

“Don’t look at me like that!” Clara pleaded. “I know you think me a strumpet, but once you finally find a man who makes your heart race and your loins pulse, maybe _then_ you will understand.”

Catherine hesitated at that, shaken. “You feel as such about Mr. Ashby?”

“W-well-”

“You _desire_ him? Truly?”

“He is very handsome,” Clara crisply replied. “I may be loyal to Lottie, but I am _not_ blind. I had a lustful lapse…that is all.”

“Oh, Clara…” Making a face, Catherine shook her head, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing. “I wish you wouldn’t behave as though lust is _normal.”_

“Oh, for goodness sake, you ninny – it _is_ normal! It’s _you_ and _Mother_ and _Father,_ and all the other puritans who are abnormal!” Hurt, she drew her arms around herself in a makeshift embrace. “I see now that I was foolish for confiding in you. I didn’t do this to hurt you, nor Lottie, nor anyone else… I don’t know _why_ I did it, and I am ashamed and seeking absolution.”

Catherine frowned, though there was a softening around her eyes. “It isn’t me you need to plead with for absolution,” she murmured. “It’s Lottie.”

And with that, the girl turned and left the room, leaving Clara alone with a sharp, searing guilt between her ribs.

* * *

With morning’s light now upon him, Ben couldn’t ignore what happened. It had been easy to hide his feelings in the dark of night – in the darkness _Clara_ had doused him in the moment she’d stormed from his room. Why had she done it, he wondered? Why had she _touched_ him if she didn’t truly _want_ him?

Ben knew he was naïve when it came to the opposite sex, but he was also a man who dreamed and yearned and _loved,_ and he couldn’t understand the idea of doing something so physical, so _intimate_ without the slightest bit of affection. Could Clara do that? _Were_ her actions an indicator of how easily she could seduce, use, and ultimately discard lovers?

The thought left Ben with an acidic, sickening sensation in his stomach. He didn’t believe she was like that – not truly. Her family might insist upon it, but he’d seen the softness in her eyes… _heard_ it in her voice. She had sounded lost and scared and alone, and his own loneliness had reached back to her through the dark.

Broody and miserable, it occurred to Ben that Clara was undoubtedly being a good sister. She’d said it herself: she believed herself a trollop because she’d done the unthinkable. Only, it _wasn’t_ unthinkable – Ben was free to court her, should circumstances be different.

But they weren’t.

He was a Rebel spy. _She_ was a wealthy Loyalist, and neither could ever, _ever_ hope to be on equal footing – not when they both believed the other to be scum.

The very idea that Ben was actually _entertaining_ the notion of being with Clara was ludicrous, and yet the moment he entered the library for a bit of quiet reading, he felt an instant spike of heat at the sight of her sitting there, sullen and quiet as she skimmed through her latest novel.

“Good morning,” he greeted. Uncertain, he approached and uneasily stood alongside her. “Where is your family?”

“Father is at work, Catherine isn’t feeling well, and Mother is drunk,” Clara snapped, promptly turning another page. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I…” Incredulous, Ben cleared his throat and tried again more softly, “I’m living here until Charlotte’s return, in case you’ve miraculously forgotten.”

“Ah, yes. Your ‘treasure’ that you spoke of so fondly yesterday.” Clara’s gaze was sharp and accusatory, and her eyes grew wet before she quickly looked back down at her book. “I hope she knows what kind of man you are.”

Ben couldn’t help but flinch. “I wasn’t trying to lure you into my bed. _You_ were the one who-”

 _“I_ was the one who touched you, yes, but you certainly didn’t do anything to fend me off,” Clara seethed. “And that is _just_ like the male sex, too. _Normal_ men blame the woman for being seduced, but I’d had higher hopes for you, Philip. Shame on me, I suppose.”

“Clara…” Swallowing, he sank onto the settee alongside her. With a shivering breath, he attempted to lay his hand over hers, but she abruptly shook herself free, his eyes flashing with unmistakable hurt. “You misunderstand me,” he whispered.

“How?” she fired back. _“How_ am I misunderstanding? Because from what I can see, our sins are plain as day.”

“It was _not_ a sin.” Jaw tensing, Ben curled his fists and looked away. But it was sinful – it _was,_ and he wished so badly for it to be otherwise, because his own father would disapprove. And yet deep down, Ben knew that something that had filled him with such a rush – with the feeling of truly _living_ could never be wrong. “I apologize if I hurt you and your sister…it was never my intention.”

“Then what _was_ your intention?” Clara asked, finally setting aside her book.

Unable to help it, Ben immediately volleyed back, “What was _yours?”_

They stared at one another then, long and hard, before the latter broke eye contact and looked away.

“I apologize,” he murmured. “That was unkind.”

“Unkind, but fair,” Clara allowed. “If you want the truth, I don’t _know_ why I did what I did, Philip. It’s just…you have _transfixed_ me, and I found myself curious about…a-about _other_ ways you might serve as a source of stimulation.”

Ben swallowed. A faint flush began to rise beneath his collar, burning hot, and he drew a sharp breath. “Clara, I am not _accustomed_ to-”

“Intimacy? Yes, I gathered as much,” she said. “With all due respect, Philip, your lack of initiative told me all I needed to know.” Slowly, a coy smile tugged at her mouth. “Was I your very first?”

“W-well-”

“It’s all right if I was,” she assured him. “In fact, I strongly _suspect_ as much, seeing how you can barely even look me in the eye. And truth be told, that absolutely will _not_ do.”

Ben raised his head again, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lottie is a demanding sort, and if you cannot please her…well…” Clara lifted her shoulders, smiling more openly. “Let’s just say that she won’t be the _only_ one left dissatisfied. I daresay she’ll seek pleasure elsewhere.”

Ben huffed, disbelief coloring his face. This woman was _confounding._ He couldn’t keep up with her hot and cold mood swings – how she both held him out at arm’s length, and drew him close in the same breath.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Just what are you advising?”

“A safety net,” Clara said, gesturing between them. “If I help you prepare for intimacy, you will know entirely what to do, and thus, save your marriage.”

Ben drew a breath. “And what would a preparation _entail,_ exactly?”

“Verbal tales…an occasional demonstration.” Clara beamed with growing confidence. “You have a nice cock, Philip, but it’s _not_ so nice if you don’t know how to use it.”

 _Good Lord._ By now, he was so overwhelmed by her boldness – by her _sordid suggestion_ – that a wave of dizziness rushed between his ears and he exhaled, gripping at his knees. “Clara, I don’t know what’s come over you, but-”

“Nor do I,” she admitted, simpering, “but at this point, I’ve already ruined everything, so I might as well make the best of it for my sister, wouldn't you agree? In the end, I pray she will _thank_ me for my gift.” Reaching down and squeezing his hand, she added, “Think on it, won’t you? If you’ve decided to accept my offer, you may meet me in my room after everyone’s turned in for the night.”

Ben gaped back at her, speechless, and barely reacted whenever she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Good afternoon, Philip. I fancy myself a walk around town, but for propriety’s sake, I don’t think I will invite you along. I will ask Mr. Markum…you know, the British officer you met the other day?” When he nodded dumbly, she brightened and rose from the settee. “If you are looking for something to read – perhaps another book on midwifery? – let me know. I’m certain I can direct you to some quite _stimulating_ materials.”

She smirked at him, pleased, before spinning on her heel and leaving him gaping after her in stunned silence.

* * *

When Ben stepped out that afternoon for a much-needed breath of fresh air, the last thing he’d expected to find was Caleb practically on the Boyd doorstep, dressed in the same British uniform he’d worn the last time they’d spoken.

“What have I told you about dropping by unannounced?” Ben hissed. “Caleb, this is _dangerous.”_ Glancing around them, he gestured and encouraged the other man to follow him on his walk. “In case you were unaware, our situation has become a bit compromised.”

Caleb’s face was hard as he nodded. “Oh, I’m _well_ aware,” he snapped. “Why the bloody hell _else_ do you think I’ve come out all this way? For teatime with you and your lushey Tory friends?”

“They are _not_ my friends.”

“Maybe not, but you certainly don’t seem averse to all the perks…” Caleb lifted his hands, then made an obscene shape of a curvy woman.

Ben sighed. “For God’s sake, what would you have me do? It’s either play along or get killed.”

“Aye.” Caleb’s expression darkened. “Do you have any idea who snuffed Archibald Smith?”

“No…I was hoping you might.”

He snorted. “A bloody lot of good it’s done us keeping you here. We need you back at camp more than ever – where _actual_ progress is being made.”

“I _have_ been making progress,” Ben hissed. “I tried sending you intel via Mr. Smith, but he was killed before the drop-off could be made…and rest-assuredly, I feel confident it was done by the same man who attacked _me.”_

Caleb balked at that, halting in his tracks. “You were attacked? Shite, Tall-boy, why the hell didn’t you say so?”

“Because I don’t know who the man was!” Ben spat. “I didn’t recognize his face, but _he_ seemed to recognize me…or at least, he told me to give General Washington his regards.”

“Shite…”

“Exactly.”

Whistling under his breath, Caleb shook his head and declared, “I have to stay here.”

_“What?”_

“I’ll pose as your cousin from England,” he continued, growing all the more determined. “You can tell the Boyds how ‘important’ I am to the cause, or whatever twaddle it is you high-flyers talk about, and then ask them to billet me until we can figure out what to do.”

Ben scoffed, tossing his hands up. “This is _ludicrous,_ Caleb. You can’t just-”

“What would be _ludicrous_ is leaving this up to chance,” he growled. “You’re clearly compromised, Ben. Let me help.”

He swallowed. “Be that as it may-”

“What?” Caleb cut in. “Don’t you think I can do anything?”

“Well, you’re not exactly… _subtle.”_

He snorted. “In all our years of friendship, I’d like to think you could give me more credit than that.” Nodding back toward the Boyd residence, he added, “Introduce me.”

“Caleb…”

 _“Introduce me,_ or I’ll make the damned introductions myself.”

Ben steeled his shoulders at that, then gave a small, jerky nod. Whether he liked it or not, the Ashby family tree was about to get a little bit larger…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem, so things are finally taking a turn (no pun intended), and I changed the rating/added to the tags to reflect future plans. I was honestly growing bored with the setting (there are only so many "exciting" things the rich can do -- i.e. read, play pianoforte, talk politics, read some more, etc.), so I decided to introduce Caleb. The setting will also change by CH 8, so there won't be much more of this stationary-ness. I'm really looking forward to all the drama in the next few chapters, so *rubs hands together* Hope you've all enjoyed! :)
> 
> 18th century slang featured:  
> gingambobs - balls  
> lushey - drunk  
> high-flyers - Jacobites, Tories


	7. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sexual content warning.** Ben agrees to lessons on intimacy. Clara makes a shocking discovery.

To Caleb’s credit, he was able to adopt the posh, gallant mien of a soldier in far more ways than Ben had been expecting. While he regaled the family with stories of war and valor, Ben forced himself to eat what was on his plate. Each bite went down like bits of cork, dry and tasteless despite the fact he was starving. He was far too nervous. Caleb – or “Reginald Ashby,” as they had decided upon – was doing a marvelous job thus far, but the whaler also had a flair for the dramatic.

As if trying to prove Ben correct, Caleb hoisted his leg onto the table, causing the women to cry out while Jedediah cleared his throat, clearly torn on whether to adhere to decorum or honor a war hero. “And _this_ was where I got grazed by a bayonet last fall,” Caleb said, peeling back the cloth on his right leg.

While he lifted his breeches above the knee and showed Catherine a wide, grinning scar, Ben tried his best not to smile. He knew that scar very well. As boys, they’d gotten into a lot of trouble, and Caleb had caught his leg on a fence before falling over the side. The result had been a nasty cut – a cut that was now being presented as a bayonet wound to the wide-eyed, pale-faced Boyds. Fortunately, Jedediah himself was not a veteran, so no one in the room could dispute Caleb’s various scars and injuries.

“Lord above,” Catherine whispered, fanning herself with an ornate, pretty paper fan. “Oh, Mr. Ashby…did you-?”

“Reggie,” Caleb corrected, which prompted her to flush.

“Ah…” Not wanting to list him as a familiar, and thus break the natural order, Catherine flushed more deeply and lowered her eyes. “You are so brave and noble, sir. I shudder to think what you must have gone through, and all for the glory of the Crown.”

“Aye, think nothing of it,” Caleb said, winking. “I did it for our magnanimous king, and would do so again in a heartbeat.”

Ben yearned to scoff, yet froze when he realized Clara was openly showing her scorn at his side.

“With all due respect, Mr. Ashby, you strike me as more of a thrill-seeker than a true man of the Crown. Why, your eyes positively _glimmer_ every time you speak of battle,” she said, smiling as she swirled her wine. “Soldiers are a fascinating sort. They either fall apart and grow taciturn, or they do as you have – open up and come _alive_ at the talk of blood, sickness and pain.”

Caleb snorted, though it was clear by his expression that she’d thrown him off. “Do you think so little of me, Miss Clara? And here I was, _already_ mighty fond of you.”

“Of course not,” Clara said, “though I _am_ curious about the family resemblance.” She looked between Ben and Caleb with an arched brow. “Philip is shy and reticent, and fair-colored, and…well… _tall._ You are none of those things.”

“Appearances aren’t always identical,” Laura said, looking to her sullen husband for help. “Honestly, Clara, why must you always be so difficult? He may not be much like Philip, but truly, I am beginning to think _no one_ can ever recreate such a handsome, masterful-”

_“Mother.”_

“We’re distant cousins,” Caleb spoke up, playfully socking Ben on the arm.

 _“Very_ distant,” Ben agreed, sparing his friend a wry glance. “Truth be told, I’ve never been blessed enough to visit England. Once the war is through, I hope to rectify that.”

“Oh, we’d be delighted to show you around London, Philip,” Laura crowed. “Jedediah has an uncle over there – isn’t that right, darling?”

Jedediah harrumphed, though it came across as an affirmative.

“Yes, I trust Lottie wishes to move there,” Clara agreed. “She speaks of European society in nearly _all_ her letters.”

Caleb finally lowered his leg again. “And you don’t, Miss Clara? ‘Cause I’d be glad to squire you around London…for a price, of course.”

She appraised him skeptically. “And what price would that be?”

“A dance, of course! Though you’ll be getting the better deal here. I’ve been told I both ‘excite’ and ‘delight.’”

Clara scoffed, though she was smiling. “Someone needs to teach you how to flirt, Mr. Ashby. Alas, I am beginning to see the family resemblance now. Both of you are _woeful_ when it comes to female seduction.”

Ben flushed all the way up to the tips of his ears, but Caleb laughed and socked him on the arm again.

“Aye, Tall-boy’s not the best when it comes to womenfolk.”

“Tall-boy?” Looking between them with a smirk, Clara said, “That’s not very imaginative, as far as pseudonyms go.”

Ever quick for deflection, Caleb volleyed back, “Give me a break, won’t you, love? We were boys when I came up with that one.”

“Be that as it may, I’d like to think that as soon-to-be members of this family, you both could offer something better in terms of ingenuity.” Pleased with herself, Clara glanced at Catherine, then said to Caleb, “Perhaps you can prove yourself this coming weekend? A family friend is hosting a ball, and I’m certain they would be delighted to have you.”

“Ah…er…”

“Other officers will be present,” she assured him. “Do you know Mr. Adam Markum, by chance?”

“He was just transferred,” Ben spoke up, clearing his throat. “I’m afraid he doesn’t know much of anyone just yet, hence his request to billet.”

“And we are _happy_ to house him,” Laura promised. “It’s an honor to have such fine, handsome men in our home.”

Jedediah tipped back the remainder of his wine, then impatiently gestured for one of the servants to refill his glass. “Just so long as those promised ships come, I’ll be willing to house whomever you wish, Philip,” he muttered. “When are they to arrive?”

“Oh, uh…” Ben hesitated, then offered, “The end of the week, I would say. Depending upon the weather conditions, of course.”

“Yes, naturally.” Jedediah cut his eyes toward Caleb. “And what is it that you do back in England again, Mr. Ashby?”

“Smithing,” Caleb said with a grin. “I make the finest silver candlesticks you’d ever see.”

“Does that include jewelry?” Catherine asked, intrigued. “I love silver brooches, in particular.”

He winked and nodded. “Aye, of course! Just ask me, and I’ll whip one up upon my return across the pond.”

“I take it back,” Clara said, drawing a hand over her chest in a mock swoon. “It would seem _Philip_ is the only woeful flirt in this equation, because Reginald is officially speaking Catherine’s love language.”

Catherine flushed, but didn’t deny it.

Ben caught Caleb’s smirk and rolled his eyes, though he was chuckling. “I’m afraid I’m far better equipped for shipbuilding than flirtations, Miss Boyd.”

“Ships are similar to womenfolk,” Caleb assured him. “Both rock and shudder whenever you set into port, if you get my meaning.”

Jedediah choked into his wine, but Clara threw her head back in a delighted laugh, her cheeks growing pink as she hid her smile behind a fair hand. To Ben’s surprise, a sensation akin to jealousy burned within his breast, tart and bilious. He couldn’t recall ever being clever enough to earn her laughter – not unless it was directed at his own _expense,_ of course.

Embittered, Ben took a swallow of cider and ignored Caleb’s eager jab against his ribs.

“I think the women should retire a bit early,” Jedediah muttered, sending Clara a pointed look. “Why don’t you three head into the drawing room?”

“Oh yes, I’m certain we have _much_ to discuss,” the redhead agreed, her tone coy and sardonic as she rose from the table. “Thank you for the entertainment, gentlemen.” To Ben, she added, “Perhaps you should listen to your cousin, Philip. He seems far more worldly.”

Again, a sickening sensation took root in Ben’s gut, and he flushed in humility as one by one, the women filed from the dining room.

Downing the remainder of his cider in one large, triumphant swallow, Caleb sighed and slammed the cup onto the table. “Now, then!” he exclaimed. “Who wants to talk about the time I slew a group of smarmy, Patriot bastards?”

Jedediah appeared intrigued, but all Ben could offer was a weakened smile.

* * *

When it was time to retire for the evening, Ben found himself standing outside of Clara’s bedroom door. It was foolish – it was _dangerous_ – and yet somehow, whether it was because of his spite or confounding array of feelings, he’d decided to play along with her earlier offer. He would listen to her, he would _learn,_ and hopefully glean helpful intel along the way.

This was for the cause. _Nothing_ more.

Drawing a deep breath, Ben lifted his hand and gently knocked. A moment later, the door opened and Clara peered up at him within the warm, dull glow of candlelight, her eyes widening before her lips quirked into a smile.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she admitted, appraising him more openly. “With all your scowling at supper, I was certain you’d dig in your heels like some obnoxious, stubborn ass.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Ben snapped, exceptionally defensive that evening.

“Oh, no?” Shutting the door behind him, Clara smirked and gestured toward her bed. “Have a seat, won’t you? We have much to discuss.”

Ben hesitated, then slowly moved over and did as she asked. It felt wrong sitting where she slept – _beyond_ inappropriate – and yet given what had already transpired between them, his reluctance seemed laughable. He’d rubbed himself off between her legs…seen her _face_ whenever she finally came.

Exhaling, he folded his hands and set his jaw, lowering his eyes when Clara approached on light feet. Just like the night before, she was wearing her loose, lightweight shift with her hair down in long, silken curls. He’d opted for a shirt and breeches, if only to maintain _some_ propriety.

“Why are you acting as though this is your execution?” she teased. Having a seat alongside him, Clara grinned and leaned back on her palms. “The thought of kissing me isn’t _that_ abhorrent, is it?”

Anxious, Ben darted his eyes in between her face and the floor. “Kissing?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “We’ll discuss other things first, of course, but being a good kisser is _essential_ to the art of lovemaking.” With a sigh, she crossed her legs at the knee, which lifted the hem of her shift to her mid-shins.

Heat pooled within Ben’s stomach and he looked away, swallowing sharply. “I don’t need to learn how to kiss,” he said.

“Oh, no?” Skeptical, Clara asked him, “You’ve been kissed before?”

“Yes,” he coolly assured her, “I _have.”_ It had been a quick, dry peck on the lips during his teenage years, but she didn’t need to know that one small detail.

“Well, wonderful!” Clara exclaimed. “I can’t wait for you to prove me wrong.” With a look that suggested she _didn’t,_ in fact believe him, she sneered and lifted a stack of books from her nightstand. “Here you are,” she said, setting the tomes into his lap. “I want you to read these over the next few days. Some have diagrams, like with the book on midwifery, but most are vital life lessons.”

Bewildered, Ben lifted the top book with a scoff. _“Hamlet?_ What does _this_ have to do with intimacy?”

Clara snorted. “The fact you even have to ask tells me all I need to know, Philip.” Gesturing to the book, she explained, “In Act 3, Scene 2, Hamlet asks Ophelia if he should lay his head upon her lap – if she thinks he is alluding to _country_ matters.”

Ben shrugged. “And?”

“Goodness, do I have to sound it out for you? _Count_ ry matters. He is quite literally speaking of her private parts.” Catching his alarm, she simpered. “It’s a clever pun, wouldn’t you agree? I do love a good sexual innuendo, and most _especially_ whenever said innuendo is geared toward a woman’s pleasure.”

Ben squirmed, disquieted. “How is referring to her…h-her carvel’s _ring_ an allusion to female pleasure?”

“Because, Philip, he desires to get down on his knees and bury his face into her lap – to lick and taste her until she falls apart.”

The heat in Ben’s stomach spread, his hands tensing as he set aside the stack of books. “I have heard talk of that sort of thing, but I…I-I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.”

Clara laughed, the sound soft and airy. “Most men don’t,” she assured him, “so I honestly expected as much. But I can assure you, Philip, women enjoy a nice, fervent surprise just as much as menfolk do.”

He drew a breath. “Then you…uh…?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I must admit, it’s _very_ unusual to come across a man who does it well, but practice makes perfect.” Noting his horror, she laughed brightly. “Fear not! I don’t intend to make you do anything of that sort…not tonight, anyway.” Tapping his knee, she said, “First thing’s first: I want you to kiss me. And not in some dry, platonic way you would kiss a cousin.”

Ben’s chest quivered with breath. “I…uh…”

“What? Did you not just claim you’ve been kissed before?”

“Well yes, but-”

“Then do what you did then,” she said, lightly curling her fingers through the cloth of his shirt. “If I am to guide you, I _must_ find out what precisely I need to fix.” Expression growing stern, she commanded, “Kiss me, Philip.”

He breathed out as though winded. With her grip tightening around his collar, Ben found himself drawn toward the plush, sensual curve of her mouth. Clara was soft and warm and _confident,_ and when he cupped her face between his hands, he felt wholly afflicted by the yearning quality in her eyes.

Throat dry, Ben leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers, trembling as he drew her in for a light, careful kiss. It had been quick and close-mouthed – _chaste_ – and when he pulled back again, he grew intimidated by the scornful look in Clara’s eyes.

“Do I not inspire passion?”

He balked. “W-what?”

“Last night, you came between my thighs, Philip. If _this_ accompanied our tryst, I daresay I would’ve left unsatisfied.” With a pointed look, Clara took his face between her hands and angled her mouth firmly into his. She felt his breath hitch, and then his hands fell to her waist, anchoring her there as their kiss grew more ardent and bruising.

With Clara’s fingers curling through his hair, she licked at his mouth and a warm, pleasant heat rippled through Ben’s limbs while clumsily, he tried his best to mimic her passion. That was when she broke the kiss.

Humming in thought, she pressed a hand to her lips and cleared her throat, a pretty pink staining her cheeks as she cocked her head. “That was…adequate,” Clara decided. “I’ve certainly had worse, but I’ve also had better.” Raising her eyes, she added, “When you try again, please don’t lap at my mouth like a dog.”

Embarrassed, Ben swallowed and looked away. “That was new to me, I must confess.”

“You don’t say?” Grinning, Clara lifted a hand and tapped his chin. “Kissing with tongue is an acquired taste, if I’m being honest, but if done properly, it can make one wholly weak in the knees.” Smug, she tucked a loosened lock of hair behind his ear. “This time, I want you to envision those ‘country matters’ we discussed.”

Ben frowned. “Why?”

“Because, if you picture yourself licking between my legs, you might actually do well with the kissing aspect.”

Ben’s face flooded with heat, but he nodded in response, dumbfounded.

“Show some initiative,” she continued. “Lottie loves confidence, so that will get you far in her good graces.” Nodding to him, Clara encouraged, “Try again.”

By this point, it felt as though he were floating. Overwhelmed by the huskiness of her voice, her perfume, her very _presence,_ Ben cupped her face and crashed his mouth into hers, attempting to emulate her assertiveness. Clara’s soft gasp caught between their lips, and emboldened, Ben glossed their tongues and tilted her head back, drinking her in as her hand fell to his lap. Her palm pressed downward and he made a small, helpless noise, his brow creasing as he pulsed and throbbed beneath her touch. He attempted to deepen the kiss, but she pulled away again, pink-cheeked and visibly astonished.

“That was better,” Clara allowed, shakily pushing back one of her wayward curls. “I’m…I-I am actually a little _besotted_ after that, so you are an exceptionally fast study.”

Heart pounding, Ben exhaled and took her hand. “I apologize,” he stammered. “It was not my intention to become so…enthused.”

“Nor was mine,” Clara whispered, lowering her gaze to his mouth. “Perhaps we should postpone areas of stimulation for another day.”

Ben attempted to calm his breath again, perplexed. “Areas of stimulation?”

“Yes…” Glassy-eyed, she leaned forward and pressed a deep, open-mouthed kiss against the side of his neck. Her mouth was warm and wet, and caused an immediate shiver to lance up his spine. When she withdrew again, she explained, “That was an area of interest. You felt added stimulation, did you not?”

Trying his best to ignore the hard, throbbing ache within his breeches, Ben nodded, mortified. “I…think I should return to my room now,” he said. Fumblingly, he grabbed the books at his side and rose, unable to meet with her gaze. “I am appreciative of your expertise, but to delve further would be inappropriate.”

Clara snorted, a wry smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, well most men _are_ appreciative,” she teased. “Thank you for indulging me, Philip. I love Lottie and want what’s best for her…though you’re right. I suppose this _is_ a little inappropriate.”

 _Very, very inappropriate._ Yearning to sink onto her knees, unfasten his breeches and pleasure him with her mouth was _not_ appropriate by any means.

Flushing deeply at the thought, Clara unsteadily rose and clasped her hands, her eyes darting between Ben and his books. “I hope you’ve learned something today, Philip. If you need anything…”

“I know where to find you,” Ben assured her, nodding. “Thank you for being so concerned for your sister.”

A moment of silence burned between them then, thick and palpable, and as he gazed upon Clara’s upturned face, Ben was stricken by how small she looked – _defenseless._ As much as she tried to hide behind her bluster, every now and then, he could see little chinks in her armor.

Why had she proposed their intimacy, he wondered? Did she only feel valuable when touched?

“Philip?”

Ben blinked away his internal fog, then forced a melancholy smile to his lips. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “Goodnight, Clara…I hope you sleep well.” Tentative, he lifted a hand and cupped the side of her face. Clara peered up at him in confusion, then tensed whenever he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

It was the softest, most gentle kiss she’d ever received, and something deep inside of her fractured at the realization. While most men leered at or groped at her, this man – this _Philip Ashby_ – held her with the utmost care, almost as if she were precious… _worthy,_ and not just desirable. For the first time in her life, she felt truly wanted.

“For Charlotte,” Ben whispered into their kiss.

“For Charlotte,” Clara whispered back, dazed. 

He withdrew then, and she swayed a moment, folding her hands as though in prayer. 

“Goodnight,” Ben murmured again. He opened the door, and then stepped out into the hallway.

Heart racing, Clara rushed forward and quickly closed the door behind him, trembling as she pressed her forehead to the cool surface and drew a breath.

* * *

Unfortunately, with the arrival of morning’s light, the lambent sunshine streaming in through Clara’s curtains did little to blot out her sins. She wasn’t cleansed or unashamed – in fact, while she laid there, the first thing that came to mind was Ben’s eyes – his hands on her chin, firm and surprisingly steadfast, and the way he’d kissed her with both aggression and a lingering sweetness.

“Damnation,” Clara muttered under her breath.

Flustered, she lifted her shift above her thighs and slid a hand between her legs, biting into her lower lip as she started working her fingers over her bud. It was shamefully easy to picture him. Despite the fact Ben was _not_ hers, each time she tweaked and rubbed herself, she could imagine his hands on her – warm and slightly rough in comparison to her own soft, fair skin.

Closing her eyes, Clara tilted her head back and suppressed a sharp gasp. Legs tensing, she slid two fingers inside herself and drove her hand strongly between her thighs, her body squirming from the building pressure in her loins.

This was it, she thought. _This_ was what her family had always demonized. Ever since she’d been very small, Jedediah had forbidden pre-marital urges, implying that it was only men who should naturally wish to make love. But he was wrong. In that moment, Clara felt primal and alive, her body jolting as her free hand continuously assaulted her bud with brisk, firm little strokes.

She could recall the look in Ben’s eyes after he’d kissed her…the sensation of his growing hardness beneath her palm. Had he, too, been unable to resist temptation? Had he _touched_ himself?

The thought made Clara whimper, and finally, the pressure became too much to bear. With a muffled cry, her body shivered and shook, and her walls spasmed around her driving fingers. She convulsed weakly and came down with Philip’s name on her tongue, flushed and sated.

Afterward, she laid there wide awake in sweet agony. Despite the guilt and humiliation of what she had done, Clara clutched at her neckline with one hand and palmed herself with the other. She wanted to feel alive – to feel _him_ – for as long as possible.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Jolting upright, Clara gasped and shakily wiped her fingers across her quilt. “Yes?” she called, cursing the slight break in her voice.

“Miss Clara, it’s Agnes,” the servant replied. “You have a letter, ma’am. May I come in?”

Exhaling in a long, slow rush of air, Clara straightened her shift and agreed, “Yes, Agnes, thank you – you may enter.”

There came a pause, then the door clicked open, and the petite, friendly-faced young woman entered the room. She held out the letter and explained, “I can’t read, ma’am, but I recognize the hand…I believe it’s your sister.”

“Oh, Charlotte!” Clara exclaimed, delighted. Though once she took hold of the letter, that same rush of staggering guilt slammed between her ribs again. She winced and chewed her lip. “Thank you, Agnes…that will be all.”

The servant curtsied, and then left the room.

Alone now, Clara tore open the seal and instantly felt warmed by the sight of her sister’s careful, practiced hand. Though as she continued to read, that smile was wiped clean from her face.

With an unsettled gasp, Clara dropped the letter and drew a hand over her mouth, behaving as though the note had burned her. Even with the correspondence discarded and on the floor, the gleeful message was forever seared into her mind with those simple, six little words:

_Philip cannot wait to meet you!_

* * *

“Christ Almighty, what a bloody waste of time,” Caleb complained. Following Ben in through the Boyd foyer, he rolled his eyes and huffed. “I tell you one thing, that’s the absolute _last_ time I let you drag me off to ‘play lawyer’ with Mr. Boyd! As if I needed any more reasons to loathe attorneys!”

Ben turned on him in an instant. “Keep your voice down, you cully! The womenfolk are still here.”

“Aye, but I’m sure they’re just as bored with the family business as we are,” he muttered.

“I thought I could show you the letters, but Mr. Boyd never wanted to leave his office,” Ben explained. “I apologize for the wasted opportunity, but at least now you know where to look.”

Caleb snorted. “There was surely a better way. Listening to rich stiffs moan about being swindled of their goods is _hardly_ my idea of a good time.”

Following his friend upstairs, Ben rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you’d be treating this excursion like a _holiday.”_

“Well, it’s a bit difficult not to, seeing just _who_ lives under this roof,” Caleb admitted, waggling his brows. “Now I get why you’ve been taking your sweet old time.”

Ben halted, unnerved by his friend’s knowing gaze. “Do you _truly_ think I would jeopardize our progress? And all for a little bit of…?”

“Relax, would you? I didn’t know you’d lost your sense of humor!” Nudging his arm, Caleb said, “I’m gonna go piss. Afterward, we can reconvene and figure out where to go from here.”

Ben sighed, then nodded. “Fine, good. I’ll be in my room. I trust the womenfolk are in the conservatory at this time of day, so we’re better off sticking to this part of the house.”

“Aye, whatever you think is best.” With one final sneer, Caleb turned and strode toward the guest bedroom at the far end of the hall.

Steeling himself, Ben headed toward his own room with mounting agitation. They hadn’t made any progress. Even with their feigned enthusiasm, neither he nor Caleb could get Jedediah to abandon his desk, nor let any valuable information slip about the Loyalist cause. All in all, it was yet _another_ wasted opportunity, and according to his general timeframe, they only had a mere number of days before Charlotte’s arrival.

_Bloody hell._

Ben stepped in through his bedroom door and sighed, so engrossed in his thoughts that he barely heard the click at his temple. Tensing up, he quickly registered the cold pressure and glanced to his right, his eyes round as he beheld Clara with a small, Queen Anne flintlock pistol.

Tears streamed down her face and she drew a breath, her chest trembling as her aim grew more resolute. She looked wild – _betrayed_ – and with a seething voice that punctured through his heart, she demanded, “Who _are_ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE I wrote another sexual-ish scene, good grief. That honestly wasn't my intention, but these two decided they wanted it, so I was like *throws hands up* OKAY, I'M JUST GONNA GO WITH THIS AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS. lol Anyway, I'm super relieved I was able to update before tomorrow, because I'm officially employed again (yay), and I probably won't be as enthused to write as I once was (not-so-yay). So yeah. I haven't started writing CH 8 yet, but I do have a basic idea, so hopefully I can corral my thoughts at some point and get another chapter up. As always, thanks so much for reading! :) You inspire me and it's much appreciated! 💕
> 
> 18th century slang featured:  
> carvel's ring - a woman's private parts  
> cully - fool/blockhead


	8. Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Clara become at odds. A newcomer comes to town with a proposition.

The air was thick and stagnant, making it difficult to breathe. Ben swallowed and lifted his hands, showing Clara his palms as a sign of submission. The hard glint in her eyes was sharp enough to lance across his heart, and failed to waver even with the contrition on his face.

“Clara…”

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice wobbly.

Ben drew a breath. “I…I-I am-”

“I know you’re not Philip Ashby,” she hissed, “so I am only going to ask you once more: _who_ are you?”

“Benjamin Cartwright,” he blurted. “I am a Tory sympathizer, and I _am_ a shipbuilder from Philadelphia – that was all the Lord’s truth.”

“Then why did you lie?” Clara demanded, narrowing her eyes. _“Why_ did you feel the need to pose as Charlotte’s betrothed?”

“You didn’t give me much choice, if you’ll recall,” Ben said. Slowly, he took a step toward her, but when Clara fiercely gestured the pistol in his direction, he exhaled and stumbled back toward the wall. He raised his arms higher. “You seemed so eager for me to be Mr. Ashby, so I grossly misconducted myself and aided in a ruse that I deeply regret,” he continued. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but…by that point, I’d muddled everything beyond repair.”

Clara snorted. Tears sparkled in her eyes and her chin trembled. “You wanted to tell me, and yet you didn’t,” she accused. “What are you, a thief? Do you want _money?”_

“No.” Quickly, Ben shook his head. “I merely wanted to lend my aid to the cause – to assist your father in any way I could. Regrettably, I believed that if I backtracked on the Philip Ashby assumption, none of you would accept my offer of assistance.” His mouth quirked into a meek smile. “Truth be told, this all felt like a sign from Providence. Mr. Ashby’s home and occupation matched up _exactly_ with my own, and I knew enough about your family to aid in the fabrication.”

Clara stiffened. “You may know about us, but _we_ don’t know about you,” she coolly observed. “I’ve never heard of any Cartwrights in Philadelphia. Are you _certain_ that’s your true name? Or do you need a moment to come up with a new lie?”

Ben flinched, and out of the corner of his peripheral, he spotted movement.

Unfortunately, Clara spotted it too. She jerked toward the doorway and raised her pistol, but not in time to fend off Caleb’s attack. He tackled her around the waist and hurtled them both to the ground, the redhead crying out as she misfired into the wall.

Ben ducked and staggered back, wide-eyed as Caleb ripped the gun from Clara’s hand and curled an arm around her throat.

“Don’t!” Ben pleaded.

The whaler ignored his friend and squeezed. Clara choked and squirmed, clawing at his forearm while tears of exertion streamed down her cheeks. Harder and harder he tightened his grip, closing off her airway.

“Caleb, that’s enough!” Ben seethed.

“We can’t have her warning the others!” he volleyed back. “Do you _really_ think she’ll stay quiet? You’ve fucked us over, Benny-boy!”

Clara wheezed and began to slacken her hold, her eyes rolling back as she sagged from the effort of trying to breathe.

Furious, Ben grabbed Caleb’s shoulders and yanked him off of her, his expression growing fearful as he dropped to his knees and gathered her up into his arms. Tasting bile, he cupped Clara’s face and tapped her cheek. She was unresponsive, but still breathing. He could already see light bruising along her throat.

“You bastard,” he growled. “Why did you have to be so rough? You could have _killed_ her!”

“You mean as _she_ would have killed _you?”_ Caleb fired back. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Ben scoffed. “She wasn’t truly going to harm me – she was bluffing!”

“Oh, yeah? The blasted thing was loaded, Tall-boy. She had _every_ intention of using that flintlock.”

He swallowed, rolling his lips together. “Be that as it may-”

“We have to go,” Caleb cut in, quickly vaulting himself to his feet. “Grab your stuff, and anything of theirs you think we might need.”

Ben paled. “We can’t just leave her…”

“We bloody well _can_ and _will,”_ Caleb hissed, rounding on his friend in an instant. “Now isn’t the time for chivalry! She’s a damned Tory, Ben – or have you forgotten that while getting inside her mutton?”

Face burning scarlet, Ben’s upper lip curled into a snarl, but he grudgingly knew Caleb was right. They didn’t have time to waste, least especially now that Clara had fired her flintlock. If anyone else was close by, they would surely come before long…

Torn, Ben looked down at Clara, then rose and hoisted her into his arms.

“What the hell are you doing?” Caleb growled. “Put that doxie-dell down!”

“I intend to,” Ben snapped back, his eyes blazing. Careful in his movements, he laid Clara across his bed and adjusted her so that she would be comfortable. With a knot in his throat, he curled his hands over hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He was. _God,_ he was. If there was one thing he’d ever wished had turned out differently, this was assuredly it.

“Let’s _go!”_ Caleb clapped a hand onto Ben’s shoulder and roughly ripped him back, causing the taller man to stumble.

Ben was tempted to get into another argument – perhaps even throw a punch or two – but instead, he tamped down his anger and grabbed his valise and a couple books from his nightstand. “Let’s go,” he gruffly agreed.

Without another word, he nodded to Caleb and moved out into the hallway.

* * *

Clara awoke again after a cold, unpleasant wave of water shocked her into consciousness.

“She’s coming to!” a girl – _Catherine?_ – exclaimed.

Groggy and delirious, Clara blinked the fog from her eyes and groaned, only to wince at the pain in her throat. Drawing a shaking hand to her neck, she swallowed and blinked more rapidly. “Where…? W- _where…?”_

“You’re in Mr. Ashby’s room,” Catherine said, concerned as she looked to Agnes. The servant was wide-eyed and clutching a carafe. “Can you remember what happened?”

“Philip…”

No, not Philip, she realized. _Benjamin Cartwright._

Furious, Clara rocketed upwards, only to instantly regret it when she dizzily fell back onto her elbows.

“Easy, darling!” Catherine exclaimed. Moving her hands to the redhead’s cheeks, she asked, “Are you hurt? Your neck is so…i-it’s bruised.” Grey eyes turning to flint, she demanded, “Did Mr. Ashby do this? Did he…d-did he take _liberties?”_

“No…” Clara swallowed past her nausea. “Or at least, he didn’t take any liberties.” Extending a hand, she gently pushed Catherine away and sat up straight. “I’m soaking wet.”

“We had to wake you up, ma’am,” Agnes said, shifting guiltily. “I apologize.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Clara said, brushing a soaked tendril of hair from her face. “Have either of you seen the Ashbys?” When both women shook their heads, she cursed under her breath. “Of course not. Of bloody _course_ not.”

“Clara, what’s going on?” Catherine demanded. “What’s happened?”

With an embittered sneer, Clara said, “It would seem that my earlier suspicions were correct. We’ve been duped, my darling.”

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

Caleb looked across his whaleboat at Ben, his brow puckering as he continued rowing with even, measured strokes. “For what?”

“For everything…and for wanting to hit you.” Here, Ben offered a weak smile, though it never reached his eyes. “I was foolish to think this could have worked. I _never_ should’ve suggested it.”

Caleb frowned. “Well, if your intel is correct, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” he offered. “Speaking of which…” He gestured with his head. “Quit slacking, will you? We’ll get to camp faster if you actually row.”

Jerking to attention, Ben swallowed and almost mechanically moved his arms. “Sorry,” he apologized again. “I suppose I’m a bit distracted.”

Caleb snorted. “She got to you, did she?”

“Who?”

“The _Boyd_ girl, obviously.”

Looking away, Ben shook his head. “I don’t know, I just…I never thought I’d grow to see the enemy as _human._ This entire time, it’s been relatively easy to label Tories as scum – as _monsters_ – but the more I got to know the Boyds, the more I realized that they’re flesh and blood with hopes, dreams, and fears just like the rest of us. We all bleed the same.”

“Not quite,” Caleb muttered. “I may’ve only spent one night with them, but they’ll _never_ be like us. The rich don’t have the same fears as the rest of the world – not even in a time like this.”

“Poverty has befallen many affluent families,” Ben reminded him, rowing with languid, even strokes.

“Ah, so you’re _pitying_ them now, are you?” Frowning, Caleb groused, “Oi! Try and row in time with me, yeah? Clara may’ve made you into a loggerhead, but she’s not worth a capsized boat!”

Clenching his teeth, Ben corrected his stance and exhaled. “What am I going to tell Washington?” he asked. “He took a chance on me, and I failed him… The letters are still in enemy possession.”

Stern expression softening, Caleb shrugged. “You weren’t even gone a full week, so I doubt he’ll be too upset. Hell, Tall-boy, you’re only one man – it’s better to be safe than get ahead of schedule.”

As if aiding as a testament to this fact, Ben’s knife wound throbbed and he winced, nodding. “Right. Even so, I wish I had more to offer than an oral report. Washington isn’t one to act on hearsay – he needs physical proof…proof that I currently don’t have at my disposal.”

“Letting him know that the enemy is aware of our plans is enough,” Caleb assured him. “Washington’s a sly ol’ fox, so he’ll make the right decision.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ben muttered. “We can’t afford more ambushes and loss of life. If nothing else, I can keep my eyes open at camp…someone there is clearly trading our secrets.”

“A right-hand man?”

“Not necessarily. However, I’m not ruling anything out, so I suspect there will be a lot of sleepless nights in our future.”

Slowly, a soft smile filled Caleb’s face. “It’s good to have you back, you know.”

Ben snorted. “Why? Because I’m giving you orders to spy on our own men?” Chuckling, he added, “Clara was right – you truly _do_ live for discord and mayhem.”

Caleb’s smile stretched into a grin. “Aye, to the highest degree.”

The two men shared a wry glance, then continued their rowing.

* * *

“That bastard. I’ll kill him – I’ll _kill_ him!”

In a rage, Jedediah seized a vase off the living room mantel and hurled it across the room, causing the Boyd women to flinch as it shattered into a hundred fine, jagged pieces. All at once, the servants in the room rushed forward to clean up the mess.

While William and another man picked up the shards, occasionally pricking themselves on the glass, Jedediah furiously began to pace.

“What was he doing here?” he demanded. _“Who_ was he? I don’t know any damned Cartwrights!”

“I don’t know, Father, but-”

“You keep quiet!” he growled at Clara. “As I recall, his staying here was all part of _your_ doing, so you are the least qualified to offer your opinions!”

Clara’s chin jutted. “I wasn’t aware I was _ever_ qualified, given your refusal to listen.”

Enraged, Jedediah took a nearby candelabra and threw it against the adjacent wall. The unlit candles popped free and went rolling across the floor.

Wincing, Laura offered, “Now, now, dear, perhaps Mr. Cartwright was just hoping to marry one of our daughters. Surely-”

 _“You_ keep quiet, as well!” Jedediah thundered. “Since the moment that jolter head arrived, you’ve opened our home and your legs to him, you…you insatiable _whore!”_

Catherine gasped and burst into tears.

Infuriated, Clara curled an arm around her sister and scowled. “Don’t worry, Father,” she seethed. “No man in their right mind would _ever_ wish to saddle himself to this family – or at the very least, not to _you.”_

The room fell silent. Even the servants faltered in their clean-up, their eyes nervously darting in between their enraged master and his daughter.

“Get out.” Despite the boiling anger in Jedediah’s bulging eyes, his voice was deathly low.

Clara’s brow creased. “I-”

 _“Get_ out!” he growled, promptly knocking a small table onto its side.

Jerking at the noise, Clara shook herself free of Catherine’s beseeching grip, then coolly agreed, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The other women both started weeping, but as she drew up her skirts and stormed from the room, Clara forced herself to keep moving and not look back.

* * *

When Ben emerged from his tent, freshly changed and out of his prior disguise, he found Caleb there waiting for him.

“Well, look at that!” the whaler crowed, grinning. “At long last, the stick has been removed from your arse!”

Ben huffed, a lopsided smile filling his face. “I certainly won’t miss dressing like the upper-class,” he agreed. “How are you faring?”

“Me? Well, I’m still missing my beard, but it’ll grow back. How about you?” Caleb appraised him with a skeptical once-over. “Are you putting off the inevitable?”

Ben sighed. “If you mean talking to Washington, yes and no. He is currently indisposed, so I haven’t had a chance to discuss the specifics – or rather, the _failures_ – of our mission.”

“We’ll get around it,” Caleb assured him. “We’ve faced far worse than this, you know.”

Ben flashed him a cynical glance, yet knew he was right. “Where are you headed?”

“I figured I’d stick around for a bit, actually…just to make sure things go well,” Caleb said. “You’ve had quite a day, so I’d hate to see you crumble under pressure.”

Ben snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Oi, quit being such a looby,” Caleb admonished, socking him on the arm. “You _know_ I trust you.”

The two turned and started walking.

“I’m beginning to wonder if I trust myself,” Ben softly admitted.

“Meaning?”

 _“Meaning,_ my track record has been less than exemplary as of late.” He thought again of Clara, and frowned when he realized that even after everything, _he_ was the one who’d been manipulated. His fieldwork had pushed his heart straight into the snares of the enemy.

Shaking his head, Ben jolted to attention whenever he spotted a figure in the distance. The man’s face was slightly obscured by his hat, but there was a dark, crooked slant to his mouth that Ben immediately disliked.

Nudging Caleb, he asked, “Who is that?”

“Hmm?” Following Ben’s gaze, he supplied, “Oh, that’s just some newcomer. Haven’t had a chance to speak with him yet, but he’s a defector.”

Ben scoffed. “And you trust him?”

“I trust no one, Benny-boy. Even so, he’s been questioned – his story checks out.”

“Right…” Tensing his hands, a cold, sickening feeling took root in his gut, and when he and Caleb passed by, Ben felt a tremor at the sight of the man’s sharp, wolfish grin.

* * *

Clara was uncertain if Jedediah meant what he said. If she was unwelcome to return, that put her in considerable danger. Despite her bravado, she didn’t _actually_ feel safe in the streets of New York, and least especially with so many lonely, leering soldiers that dotted the streets.

Drawing her shawl in about her shoulders, she avoided making eye contact as she moved. Her footsteps were measured, _aimless,_ and fretful, she wondered if she had enough to stay at a tavern indefinitely.

That was when she thudded into a stranger.

With a soft cry, she staggered back and drew her shawl in more securely, only to blink in surprise at the warm, friendly-looking face peering down at her.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he said. “Clara Boyd, is it?”

All at once, she found her defenses going up. “Who wants to know?”

Doffing his hat, the man revealed a head of dark, wavy hair and bright, friendly brown eyes. “Mr. Quentin Weatherford, at your service. I was actually on my way to visit your family.”

Offering a brief curtsy in return, Clara frowned and looked away. “I’m afraid you won’t find my father in a pleasant humor, Mr. Weatherford. A rather… _tense_ situation has arisen.”

Quentin frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that. But if it eases your mind at all, I actually came with the intention of speaking with _you,_ and not Jedediah. I desired your father’s permission, but yours will suffice, if need be.”

Clara blinked up at him in open bafflement, not understanding. _“Me?_ With all due respect, sir, I have no idea who you are. What could you possibly wish to discuss with a stranger?”

“Forgive me,” Quentin said, slipping his hat back onto his head. “I should have explained sooner: I am working with the British army, and am in need of your help. A man who stayed with you recently – I believe his name was Ashby? – has come to our attention, and we are very interested in his capture.”

Unable to help it, Clara bristled at the mention of Ben. Chin tensing, she coolly agreed, “You and me both, sir. He has quite a bit of explaining to do.”

“For the bruising on your neck, perhaps?”

Self-conscious, she fluttered a hand toward her throat. “I…w-well…”

“Come with me,” Quentin cajoled. “If everything goes as planned, this Ashby fellow will be hanged as a traitor, _and_ you’ll be returned home before supper. What do you say?”

Despite the prick of anguish within her breast, Clara’s eyes grew steely and she nodded. “I’d say he deserves far worse than that, Mr. Weatherford. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to take this opportunity to reiterate that this is NOT an historically accurate story! As much of an AmRev nerd as I am, I have no interest in rehashing what really happened, because my inspiration would assuredly dwindle. With that said, I guess if you've gotten this far, you already know this lol. 
> 
> Anyway, I was promoted after my first week of work lmao, so I'm even MORE pressed for time than I was before (stress, stress, STRESS), so I'm relieved I managed to finish this in time for the new work week. This was obviously a filler chapter, 'cause things (hopefully) get interesting again in the next installment. Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> 18th century slang featured:  
> in her mutton - having carnal knowledge of a woman   
> loggerhead - blockhead or stupid fellow  
> jolter head - a large head; metaphorically, a stupid fellow  
> looby - an awkward, ignorant fellow


	9. Baiting the Hook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara is brought to camp. She and Ben have a contentious reunion.

Nervously fiddling with her shawl, Clara gaped out the carriage window as the afternoon sun slowly dipped in the sky. Her new acquaintance, Quentin Weatherford, sat across from her jotting notes into a leatherbound journal.

“Why didn’t you approach sooner?” she softly asked.

Lifting his head, Quentin sighed and leaned back in his seat. “We needed to be certain your ‘Philip Ashby’ was the man we thought he was. As the Rebel head of intelligence, it seemed _unlikely_ that Washington’s own Benjamin Tallmadge would be entrenched in New York City.”

With her pulse spiking, a lump formed in Clara’s throat and she swallowed. “Why would this man, this _Major Tallmadge,_ want anything to do with my family? We’re not…I-I mean…”

“You’re very rich and influential Tories,” Quentin reminded her. “If he could spy on you and immerse himself into your conversations, it was very likely that he might acquire intel to bring back to Washington’s camp.”

A sharp, shuddering breath rolled through her and she shook her head. “But he seemed so _sincere.”_

“Spies often do,” Quentin coolly said. “A spy of our own – Robert Donoghue – spotted him not too long ago. They got into a bit of a scuffle, and Donoghue thought Tallmadge was dead.”

Clara blinked back at him in shock. _“Your_ man was the one who murdered Archibald Smith?”

Quentin shrugged, unrepentant. “Alas, the cause requires sacrifice, Miss Boyd. We’d learned he was in league with Tallmadge, and despite the fact it would’ve been better to have him _alive_ to make an example of, Donoghue got a bit spirited in his efforts.”

Clara bristled. “I’d hardly refer to what he did as ‘a bit spirited.’ As for Phil- ah… _Major Tallmadge,_ he was in a poor state when I found him.”

“We thought he was dead,” Quentin reminded her, “but he was spotted with your father not too long after, so we knew we still had a job to do.”

“And you need me to do _what,_ exactly?”

“Pose as bait,” he said. “If I offer you in addition to enlistment, I’ll be rewarded.”

Clara shook her head, not understanding. “Meaning what? You intend to serve under Washington, and prove your valor by offering _me?”_

“More or less,” Quentin agreed. “By having you under Rebel control, they’ll be able to put pressure on your father.”

Clara laughed then, the sound harsh and scornful. “With all due respect, sir, my father doesn’t give a _blue_ _damn_ about me.”

“Perhaps not, but _they_ don’t know that,” Quentin said slyly. “As long as they believe they’ll have the upper hand over Jedediah, and by proxy, _Tryon,_ we’ll be in business.”

Clara chewed her lip. “But what am I to do once I’m their captive? If you think for one minute that I’ll let those vile, repulsive Rebels lay _one_ hand on me-”

“I’ll ensure that you’re protected,” Quentin promised. “As long as you do exactly what I say, you should be safe.”

Slowly, the rigidness faded from Clara’s shoulders, and she held out a gloved hand in agreement. “I accept your terms, Mr. Weatherford. I pray that the hangman’s noose finds Major Tallmadge with swift alacrity.”

Quentin grinned, then heartily shook her hand.

* * *

“This is insufficient.”

“But sir!”

“I cannot move forward with _hearsay,”_ Washington spat, looking up at Ben with a stern, even scowl. “I have told you this time and time again: our relations are strained enough without muddying the waters. Were this to be a false report, we could do irreparable-”

“We’ve _already_ caused irreparable damage!” Ben thundered. “We are at _war,_ sir, and I tell you, my intel is sound! Had my messenger not been _killed,_ the evidence would be in your very hands!” Catching himself, he swallowed back a curse and looked down at his feet. “If we ignore the fact that the other side has our plans, we will _never_ win another battle again. Or at the very least, none of which we’ve laid out for the foreseeable future!”

“He has a point, sir,” Caleb offered, lingering awkwardly in the background. “Even if this turns out to be faulty information, it wouldn’t be wise to flat-out ignore it.”

Washington opened his mouth to reply, but the tent flap opened and a messenger stepped in.

“Your Excellency, there’s a man here to see you – says he’s got something you might want. Or rather, some _one._ ” Eyes shifting toward Ben, he added, “I think he said her name was Tara Boyd.”

“Clara,” Ben whispered, startled. “But how…?”

“Who is this man?” Washington cut in, rising from his seat. “Has he been questioned?”

The messenger nodded. “He said his name is Thomas Fields. He wishes to enlist, sir, and offer this girl as leverage against the Boyd family in New York City. He claims they hold vital Tory information that could sway our strategy.”

“And the girl,” Ben cut in, “is she hurt?”

The messenger shrugged. “She seemed fine, sir.”

“Bring them to me,” Washington agreed. “If I deem his arrangement suitable, we will move forward with his request.”

The young man bowed, then stepped back outside of the tent.

* * *

When the tent flap opened again, two men entered – one being the messenger, and the other Quentin Weatherford, both of whom flanked a very peevish and tight-lipped Clara Boyd.

Her eyes cut toward Ben and his heart plummeted, throbbing with a harsh, fearful ache as she was dragged before Washington.

“This is her, Your Excellency,” Quentin crowed. “What do you think, sir?”

Washington looked between the present company with an unreadable frown. “And you are?”

“Thomas Fields, sir, at your service.” Quentin doffed his hat and bowed, then straightened again with a grin. “She was quite the fighter, but now she’s docile as a lamb. See?” As if to demonstrate, he reached over and pinched Clara’s cheek.

In a rage, she jerked in his direction and bit down on his fingers, causing him to howl and retract with a snarl. “You…you _bitch!”_

“Keep your filthy, Rebel hands off me!” she seethed. _“All_ of you!” Furious, she spat down at their feet.

The messenger responded by clocking her across the face, her petite frame hurtling to the ground from the mighty blow.

Ben moved to assist, but Caleb quickly caught hold of his arm, shaking his head. It wasn’t wise to show that his feelings toward an enemy had changed – he _knew_ that – and yet rage simmered beneath Ben’s skin as he watched Clara weep and curl against the grass, holding a hand to her rapidly swelling cheek.

“There will be no striking the prisoner,” Washington spoke in a cool, clipped voice. “As both a woman and our guest, Miss Boyd is deserving of our respect.” Nodding to Quentin and the messenger, he added, “You may escort her to her new lodgings. Once we are ready to contact the Boyd family, I will send for your assistance.”

Quentin beamed and bowed. “But of course, Your Excellency. Am I to be enlisted, as well?”

“You may see Colonel Hamilton about your desires,” Washington allowed. “Thank you for your contribution to the cause.”

The men shared a bow of the head, and then both the messenger and Quentin stooped to gather a weeping Clara from the ground. As she was escorted from the tent, she didn’t once stop to turn and look Ben in the eye.

* * *

Despite Washington’s request for Clara to be treated with respect, she felt that her current lodgings were nothing short of hell itself. She was being kept in a _barn,_ of all places, and the dirt, leaf matter, and God only knew what else itched her skin as she sat manacled against a post.

This was all Quentin’s fault. Despite his promise that he would protect her, he didn’t _once_ intervene to keep that vile, deplorable messenger from striking her. By now, the lump on her cheek had faded to a tender, throbbing bruise. It seemed she was developing quite the collection.

“You comfortable there, missus?”

Glowering over at the soldier on guard, Clara curled her lip before turning to face the front again.

“Oi, you too good to talk to me, or somethin’?” he asked, approaching her with a slow, threatening swagger. “I asked you a _question.”_

Clara swallowed, her heart pounding rapidly as she tightened her hands.

“Listen here, you rich, Tory _bitch._ I’ll-!”

The stockade door opened then, causing Clara and the soldier to jerk and glance toward the intrusion. A figure with a tray stepped in through the entrance, and despite her rage and frustration toward the man, Clara had never felt more relieved to see Ben in her life.

“Er, uh…Major Tallmadge!” the soldier spluttered in greeting. “Wasn’t expectin’ you here. I was told-”

“You were _told_ to obey orders,” Ben snapped, “so kindly obey mine. You are dismissed.”

Leery of the fiery look in the other man’s eyes, the soldier nodded, then grudgingly side-stepped him to make his leave.

Once the door banged shut, the tension in Ben’s posture softened, and he turned to look at Clara with glassy, mournful eyes. “I’m sorry.” When all she did was glare at him, he sighed and took a step forward. “May we speak candidly?”

She scoffed, resentful as the urge to weep welled up within her throat. “You lied to me,” she accused. “You lied to my _family_ – we took you in, and loved you and _trusted_ you, and yet all you have to say is you’re _sorry?”_ She laughed then, the sound sharp and derisive. “Is that _‘candid’_ enough for you, Major?”

Ben winced. “I suppose I deserve that,” he murmured. “You have no reason to trust me, nor even _like_ me, but I swear to you, Clara, my feelings for you and your family – or at least, you and your sister, Catherine – were all genuine.”

Clara snorted. “How can I believe that? Everything I thought I knew about you has turned out to be a lie…Major _Benjamin Tallmadge.”_ Upper lip curling, she looked him over with a sneer. “If nothing else, I suppose that traitorous uniform becomes you.”

Ben swallowed, then gingerly approached with the tray of food. “I did not intend for you to find out this way. Had I been given more time…”

“Oh, so you would have told me the truth? Just as you did the first two times you were given the opportunity, Mr. _Philip-Ashby-Benjamin-Cartwright?”_

Avoiding her gaze, Ben wet his lips and gestured to the tray in his hands. “You should eat something,” he deflected. “I was hard-pressed in getting something for you, so these are my personal rations.”

Clara glowered up at him. “Those are yours?”

“Yes.”

“So they’re no one else’s?”

“No, of course not.”

Appearing grudgingly acquiescent, Clara held out her hands to accept the tray and Ben smiled, sinking down to his left knee in relief. Though the moment he held out the food in offering, Clara furiously smacked the tray from his grasp, sending the meager portions of stew splattering across the dirt.

“I hope you _starve,”_ she seethed at him. “If you think for one minute that I will ever accept _anything_ from you, even something that will save my very life, you are sadly mistaken!”

Trying his best not to tremble, Ben clumsily gathered up the discarded wooden bowl and returned it to its tray. “Clara, you _must_ eat.”

“Miss Boyd.”

He squinted at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Miss _Boyd,”_ she coolly reminded him. “You are not my familiar – you are not my _equal_ – therefore, you must address me with the proper respect.”

Ben’s heart lanced painfully at the contradiction, and gritting his teeth, he smoothed a hand over his waistcoat before rising from the ground. “Very well,” he agreed, “my apologies, _Miss Boyd.”_

“Don’t act like you’re the victim here,” Clara hissed. “You came into my life under false pretenses, so you have _no right_ to behave as though I owe you anything.”

Ben swallowed. “I am aware of this, but-”

“There _is_ no ‘but!’ You destroyed anything we could’ve been the moment you decided to pose as Lottie’s betrothed!”

“Then…you _do_ admit there could have been something?” Ben regarded her through wide, hopeful eyes, and Clara gaped back at him in shock.

A tension throbbed between them then, long and silent, before she leaned forward and furiously spat onto his boots. “Get out,” she growled at him. “Get _out,_ damn you! If Providence is kind, I will never have to see your face again!”

Ben took a reeling step back, shaken, before he regarded her with what he hoped to be indifference. “I will have someone else bring your food in the morning,” he whispered. “Good day to you, Miss Boyd.”

He hesitated as though he wished to say more, hunched his shoulders, and then promptly turned and left Clara to cry into her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this took a turn (harrharr), cuz I was originally going to have Quentin killed and Ben and Caleb "rescue" Clara, but then I was like NO, let's do a reverse spy thing instead where they're unknowingly letting the enemy into their camp. SO! Needless to say, I officially have no idea what I'm doing anymore, which is honestly very common for me since I'm a plantser lol. I'm amazed I was able to update again after my second week of work, cuz we are SO busy and I almost never write when I'm working, so yeah. I also felt lowkey uncomfortable writing GWash, cuz I swore I'd never write any super famous historical figures. I just feel weird about it! The whole time I was like, "DEAR REAL WASHINGTON: PLEASE DO NOT HATE ME." lol So yeah, I'd prefer to NOT write him again, but if I have to, I suppose I will!
> 
> Thanks to those who've commented/left kudos/shown an interest! You warm the cockles a' me 'eart.


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